THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


GIFT  OF 

H.  R.   Lawson 


POEMS 


V.'ILLIAM    HENRY    BURLEIGH 


"The  Poet  cltims  at  least  this  praise: 
That  virtuous  Liberty  hath  been  the  scope 
Of  his  pure  song,  which  did  not  shrink  from  hope, 
In  the  worst  moment  of  these  evil  days." 


Wordsworth. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.  MILLER  M'KiM,  31  NORTH  FIFTH  STREET. 

PITTSBURGH  :     IXGRAM  &  M'CAXDLESS. 

NEW  YORK  :    WILEY  &  PUTXAM. 


841. 


ENTERED  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1841,  by 

WILLIAM  H.  BURLEIGH, 

In  the  Office  of  tho  Clerk  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Eastern  District 
of  Pennsylvania. 


MEKHIHEW  &  THOMPSON,  Printers, 
No.  7  Carter's  Alley. 


1S3 


DEDICATORY   SONNET. 

TO   CHARLES  C.  BURLEIGH. 

A  wreath  of  flowers,  not  scentless  all,  nor  wild, 
Though  few  may  challenge  the  fastidious  eye— 
From  Life's  rough  wayside  gathered  hastily, 
On  which  a  cloudless  sun  hath  seldom  smiled, 
I  lay  before  thee,  by  the  thought  beguiled 

That  thou  the  humble  offering  wilt  accept — 
For  well  I  ween  thy  heart  hath  truly  kept 
The  love  it  bore  me  when  an  artless  child. 
Playmate— companion— counsellor— and  friend- 
Brother  by  blood,  and  doubly  so  in  heart ! 
Changeless  through  every  change  to  me  thou  art- 
And  as  our  souls  have  blended,  so  shall  blend 
Our  names  upon  this  page,  that  it  may  be 
A  witness  of  thy  worth,  and  of  my  love  fur  thee  ! 


503 


CONTENTS. 


« Let  there  be  light,"         ....  9 

Psalm  cxlviii.         _   •            -            '•'•..        •  -         12 

Spring,     ------  15 

«  As  thy  day  is,  so  shall  thy  strength  be,"       -  -         17 

Elegiac  Stanzas,    -                                       -  20 

Song,              -             -             -             -                       •  $,.       23 

Stanzas,  to  the  Abolitionists  of  America,  25 

Morning,         -             -             -            .-  -         28 

To  an  Orphan,      -        _   -'          -            V           -  30 

Beauty,                                      -        pV  '        -  -         33 

Emancipation  in  the  West  Indies,              -  34 

Winter,                                .  *•         ..-y          '        ,  "         37 

1837,  a  New  Year's  Fancy,      .    -'       \   •:*    -    •'.  _          39 

Charles  Pollen,           -             -             -  "     ^    -    '  •         46 

The  Dying  Slave,              -                                        -  48 

Hymn,  sung  at  a  Sabbath  School  Celebration,  -         50 

Expostulation,  addressed  to  a  Lady,            -  52 

Stanzas,  on  visiting  my  birth-place,     -             -  -         55 

Benjamin  Lundy,              -  58 

An  Appeal  to  a  Clerical  Friend,          -             -  -         62 

Stanzas  for  the  New  Year,             ...  66 
Sonnet,           ------         71 

Edith,       -             -  72 

H.  A.  B.,                     .            -            -            -  -75 

The  Young  Poetess,                        -             -  78 

May,                            -  -         82 

On  seeing  a  group  of  Girls  kneeling  in  Silent  Prayer,  84 

A  Word  to  the  South,  •         86 
1* 


VI.  CONTENTS. 

To  a  Playing  Boy,             -  89 

"  Let  me  go,"              «            -            -            -  -91 

Archy  Moore,        -        ^1-        ^.-             -             •  95 

James  Otis  Rockwell,               -             -             -  -         98 

Birth-day  Song,    ....          '"..  103 

Gone — not  Lost,         .....       106 

The  Song  of  Captivity,      -             -             -             -  109 

Elijah  Parrish  Lovejoy,           -             -             -  -       111 

« Reform  Convention,"      -             -             -             -  112 

Vesper  Hymn,                                        -  -       116 

Sonnet  to  the  North  Star,               -             -             -  118 

June,                                          -             -             -  -       119 

To  my  Quaker  Cousin,     -             -             -             -  122 

The  Widow's  Offering,            -             -             -  -       126 

The  Old  Man's  Soliloquy,                                          -  127 

The  Death  of  the  Outlaw,       -            -             -  -       131 

Almira,     -                                        ...  139 

The  Freeman,                           -             -             -  142 

A  Song  for  the  New  Year,             -             -             -  143 
Marriage  Hymn,          .....       146 

Cowper,    -.-...  148 
The  Champions  of  Slavery,    ....       149 

Requiem,                -             -             -             -             -  152 

To  a  Young  Lady,      -             -             -             -  154 

December,                            -             -             -             -  156 

Invitation,       -             -             -             -             -  -157 

The  Dead  Infant,                             -             -             -  159 

The  Fugitive,                           -            -            -  160 

Lines,       ......  164 

The  Fever  Stricken,  -  ...       167 

How  Selfish  are  our  Tears,            -             -             -  170 

« The  Earth  is  the  Lord's,"    -            -            -  -       173 

Thanatymnos,       -             -             -             -             -  177 

Dramatic  Sketch,        -             -             -             -  187 

Morning  Hymn,    -            -             -            -            -  195 


CONTENTS.  Vll. 

Evening  Hymn,          -            -            -  -                    197 

Psalm  xliii.,           -             -             -  -             -             199 

The  Avenger  of  the  Slave,      -  ,     .                    201 

Psalm  xxiii.,          -  -                           203 

A  Description,             ...             .  .             .       205 

206 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS. 

Solitude,         ^            -            ...                     , '  .      211 

A  Simile,                       ?  -  212 

Consolation,   -             -             -             -             -  "gi  -         ib. 

Faith,       -  213 

Moral  Reformers,     "-.".*•            -             -  -       214 

The  Dead  Child,  -  ib. 

The  Captivity,            -        .     .             -             -  -       216 

The  French  Revolution,    -             -             -             -  217 

Influence  of  Spring,    -             -             -             -  -         ib. 

Rain,        -                     -    -  218 

A  Lament,     -             -            -             -             -  -219 

Absence,  ------  ib. 

Forgiveness,  --..---       220 

Winds,     -                                                                    -  221 

The  Idler,       -                           .             -             -    '  -       222 

Sabbath  Morning,              -             ...             .  ib. 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers,               -             -             -  -       223 

Expostulation,       .....  224 

Supplication,  -             -             -             -             -  226 

Lovejoy,  -                                                      -             -  ib. 

The  Wife  of  Lovejoy,                          -  -       227 

The  Farewell,       -                                                      -  228 
Summer,        ......       229 

Noon  in  Midsummer,        ....  230 

Hope,             -  231 

A.  C.  R.,  -             -                                                    -  232 

To  my  Infant  Daughter,          -             -             -  -         ib. 


Vlll.  CONTENTS. 

Orat  Ilia,  ------  233 

Never  Despair,            .....  234 

Sickness,  ......  235 

Mary  Howitt,              -             -             -             -  ib. 

Twilight, ......  236 

Night,  -  -  -  -237 

Love's  Triumph,  .....  ib. 

Constancy,     ......  238 

Harriet,    ...  239 

Stars,                            -                                                      -  240 

The  Farewell  of  Summer,              ...  ib. 

Autumn,         ......  241 

Winter,    -  -  -242 

January  1,  1834,         -----  ib. 

War,        -                                       ...  243 

Peace,                          -             -             -            -             -  244 

L'Envoi, 246 


"LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT." 

NIGHT,  stern,  eternal,  and  alone, 

Girded  with  solemn  silence  round, 
Majestic  on  his  starless  throne, 

Sat  brooding  o'er  the  vast  profound — 
And  there  unbroken  darkness  lay, 

Deeper  than  that  which  veils  the  tomb, 
While  circling  Ages  wheeled  away 

Unnoted  'mid  the  voiceless  gloom. 

Then  moved  upon  the  waveless  deep 
The  quickening  SPIRIT  of  the  LORD, 

And  broken  was  its  pulseless  sleep 
Before  the  EVERLASTING  WORD  ! 

"LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT!"  and  listening  Earth, 
With  tree  and  plant  and  flowery  sod, 

'  In  the  beginning '  sprang  to  birth, 

Obedient  to  the  voice  of  GOD. 

2 


10 


Then  in  his  burning  track,  the  Sun 

Trod  onward  to  his  joyous  Noon, 
And  in  the  heavens,  one  by  one, 

Clustered  the  stars  around  the  Moon — 
In  glory  bathed,  the  radiant  Day 

Wore  like  a  king  his  crown  of  light — 
And,  girdled  by  the  "Milky  Way," 

How  queenly  looked  the  star-gemmed  Night ! 

Bursting  from  choirs  celestial,  rang 

Triumphantly  the  notes  of  song ; 
The  morning  stars  together  sang 

In  concert  with  the  heavenly  throng ; 
And  Earth,  enraptured,  caught  the  strain 

That  thrilled  along  her  fields  of  air, 
Till  every  mountain  top  and  plain 

Flung  back  an  answering  echo  there ! 

CREATOR!  let  thy  Spirit  shine 

The  darkness  of  our  souls  within, 
And  lead  us  by  thy  grace  divine 

From  the  forbidden  paths  of  sin ; 
And  may  that  Voice  which  bade  the  earth 

From  Chaos  and  the  realms  of  Night, 
From  doubt  and  darkness  call  us  forth 

To  God's  own  liberty  and  light! 


w.  H.  BUKLEIGH'S  POEMS.  11 

Thus,  made  partakers  of  Thy  love, 

The  baptism  of  the  Spirit  ours, 
Our  grateful  hearts  shall  rise  above, 

Renewed  in  purposes  and  powers; 
And  songs  of  joy  again  shall  ring 

Triumphant  through  the  arch  of  Heaven — 
The  glorious  songs  which  angels  sing, 

Exulting  over  souls  forgiven ! 


PSALM  CXLVIII. 

PRAISE  ye  the  Lord !  let  sounds  of  praise 
From  every  mountain-top  be  poured; 

And  from  the  heavens  your  voices  raise 
In  songs  of  glory  to  the  Lord ! 

Praise  Him,  ye  angel  throngs  who  stand 
In  radiant  ranks  around  his  throne — 

Ye  hosts  who  wait  at  his  command, 
Make  his  eternal  glory  known! 

Sun !  burning  in  thy  path  of  light, 
And  flinging  thy  rich  gifts  abroad — 

Stars !  watchers  of  the  solemn  Night — 
Praise  ye  the  everlasting  God! 

Called  into  being  by  His  word, 

Who  still  his  watch  around  you  keeps ; 

Sing  praises  to  the  sovereign  Lord, 

Ye  heavens  of  heavens — ye  upper  deeps ! 


Earth  and  her  waters — fire  and  hail — 
Vapors  obedient  to  His  will — 

The  fleecy  snow,  the  stormy  gale, 
His  word  commissioned  to  fulfil — 

The  mountains,  tossing  to  the  sky 

Their  snowy  heads  in  proud  disdain — 

The  hills  beneath  whose  shadows  lie 
The  riches  of  the  ripening  grain — 

Trees,  laden  with  their  luscious  fruit — 
Cedars,  that  rise  like  columns  tall — 

The  creeping  insect,  and  the  brute 
Obedient  to  his  master's  call — 

The  joyous  bird,  whose  winnowing  wings 
Are  freely  to  the  breezes  given ; 

That  soars  exultingly,  and  sings 

As  if  its  song  were  learned  in  Heaven — 

Kings  of  the  earth,  whose  sceptred  hand 
Is  clothed  with  majesty  and  power — 

Princes  and  judges  of  the  land, 

Before  whose  presence  Guilt  doth  cower— 
2* 


14  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

High-hearted  Youth,  within  whose  breast 
Heaves  darkly  Passion's  lava- tide — 

Maidens,  in  virgin  beauty  dress'd — 

Old  Age,  with  Childhood  by  his  side — 

Reverent,  let  all  with  glad  accord, 
Blending  their  many  tones  in  one, 

Shout  hallelujahs  to  the  Lord, 

Whose  name  is  excellent  alone ! — 

Whose  glory  above  Earth  and  Heaven, 
Untarnished,  evermore  shall  dwell — 

Praise  Him,  ye  saints !  to  GOD  be  given 
The  praises  of  His  ISRAEL  ! 


SPRING. 

THE  sweet  South  wind,  so  long 
Sleeping  in  other  climes,  on  sunny  seas, 
Or  dallying  gaily  with  the  orange-trees 

In  the  bright  Land  of  Song, 
Wakes  unto  us  and  laughingly  sweeps  by, 

Like  a  glad  spirit  of  the  sunlit  sky. 

The  laborer  at  his  toil 
Feels  on  his  cheek  its  dewy  kiss,  and  lifts 
His  open  brow  to  catch  its  fragrant  gifts — 

The  aromatic  spoil 

Borne  from  the  blossoming  gardens  of  the  South — 
While  its  faint  sweetness  lingers  round  his  mouth. 

The  bursting  buds  look  up 
To  greet  the  sun-light,  while  it  lingers  yet 
On  the  warm  hill-side, — and  the  violet 

Opens  its  azure  cup 

Meekly,  and  countless  wild-flowers  wake  to  fling 
Their  earliest  incense  on  the  gales  of  Spring. 


16  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

The  reptile,  that  hath  lain 
Torpid  so  long  within  his  wintry  tomb, 
Pierces  the  mould,  ascending  from  its  gloom 

Up  to  the  light  again — 

And  the  lithe  snake  crawls  forth  from  caverns  chill 
To  bask  as  erst  upon  the  sunny  hill. 

Continual  songs  arise 

From  Universal  Nature — birds  and  streams 
Mingle  their  voices,  and  the  glad  Earth  seems 

A  second  Paradise  ! 

Thrice  blessed  Spring ! — thou  bearest  gifts  divine  ! 
Sunshine,  and  song,  and  fragrance — all  are  thine, 

Nor  unto  Earth  alone — 
Thou  hast  a  blessing  for  the  human  heart, 
Balm  for  its  wounds  and  healing  for  its  smart, 

Telling  of  Winter  flown, 
And  bringing  hope  upon  thy  rainbow  wing, 
Type  of  Eternal  Life— thrice  blessed  Spring ! 


'AS  THY  DAY  IS,  SO  SHALL  THY  STRENGTH 
BE." 

PILGRIM  !  treading  feebly  on, 
Smitten  by  the  torrid  sun — 
Hoping  for  the  cooling  rain, 
Looking  for  the  shade  in  vain, — 
Travel-worn  and  faint  at  heart, 
Weak  and  weary  as  thou  art, 
Let  thy  spirit  not  repine, 
Shade  and  shelter  shall  be  thine; 
Friendly  hands  to  thee  shall  bring 
Water  from  the  cooling  spring, 
And  the  voice  thou  lovest  best 
Call  the  wanderer  to  his  rest: 
God  hath  said,  to  comfort  thee, 
"As  thy  day,  thy  strength  shall  be!" 

\Vatcher  by  the  bed  of  death ! 
Waiting  for  the  latest  breath 
Of  the  loved,  whose  heart  hath  grown 
Close,  and  closer  to  thine  own — 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

Gazing  on  the  fading  eye 

Long,  and  oh,  how  mournfully  ! 

While  Remembrance  travels  back 

Over  Being's  vanished  track, 

Multiplying  present  wo 

By  the  joys  of  "  long  ago," 

Till  thy  tears  are  poured  like  rain, 

And  thy  spirit  writhes  with  pain; 

To  this  blessed  promise  flee — 

"As  thy  day,  thy  strength  shall  be!" 

Mother!  from  thy  sheltering  breast 
To  his  dark  and  dreamless  rest 
They  have  borne  thy  fair-haired  boy, 
Him  who  was  thy  hope  and  joy — 
Him  who  was  thy  only  stay 
When  his  father  passed  away; 
Coldly  by  that  father's  side 
Now  decays  thy  flower  of  pride, 
And  thy  widowed  heart  is  left 
Doubly  wounded— twice  bereft! 
Yet  the  God  who  smites  to  heal 
Can  for  human  anguish  feel ; 
He  will  find  a  balm  for  thee — 
"As  thy  day,  thy  strength  shall  be!" 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  19 

Christian!  toiling  for  the  prize 
Kept  for  thee  beyond  the  skies- 
Warring  with  the  powers  of  sin, 
Foes  without  and  foes  within — 
Breathing  now  in  rapture's  air, 
Verging  then  upon  despair — 
Trembling,  hoping,  filled  with  pain, 
Yet  rejoicing  once  again; 
Shrink  not  from  Life's  bitter  cup, 
God  shall  bear  thy  spirit  up — 
He  shall  lead  thee  safely  on 
Till  the  ark  of  rest  is  won— 
Till  thy  spirit  is  set  free: — 
"As  thy  day,  thy  strength  shall  be!" 


ELEGIAC  STANZAS. 

SHE  hath  gone  in  the  spring-time  of  life, 

Ere  her  sky  had  been  dimmed  by  a  cloud, 
While  her  heart  with  the  rapture  of  love  was  yet  rife, 

And  the  hopes  of  her  youth  were  unbowed — 
From  the  lovely,  who  loved  her  too  well — 

From  the  Heart  that  had  grown  to  her  own — 
From  the  sorrow  which  late  o'er  her  young  spirit  fell, 

Like  a  dream  of  the  night  she  hath  flown; 
And  the  earth  hath  received  to  its  bosom  its  trust — 
Ashes  to  ashes,  and  dust  unto  dust. 

The  Spring,  in  its  loveliness  drest, 

Will  return  with  its  music-winged  hours, 
And,  kissed  by  the  breath  of  the  sweet  South-west, 

The  buds  shall  burst  out  into  flowers; 
And  the  flowers  her  grave-sod  above — 

Though  the  sleeper  beneath  recks  it  not — 
Shall  thickly  be  strown  by  the  hand  of  Love, 

To  cover  with  beauty  the  spot — 
Meet  emblems  are  they  of  the  pure  one  and  bright, 
Who  faded  and  fell  with  so  early  a  blight. 


21 


Ay,  the  Spring  will  return — but  the  blossom 

That  bloomed  in  our  presence  the  sweetest, 
By  the  Spoiler  is  borne  from  the  cherishing  bosom, — 

The  loveliest  of  all  and  the  fleetest ! 
The  music  of  stream  and  of  bird 

Shall  come  back  when  the  winter  is  o'er ; 
But  the  voice  that  was  dearest  to  us  shall  be  heard 

In  our  desolate  chambers  no  more! 
The  sunlight  of  May  on  the  waters  shall  quiver — 
The  light  of  her  eye  hath  departed  for  ever ! 

As  the  bird  to  its  sheltering  nest, 

When  the  storm  on  the  hills  is  abroad, 
So  her  spirit  hath  flown  from  this  world  of  unrest 

To  repose  on  the  bosom  of  God ! 
Where  the  sorrows  of  earth  never  more 

May  fling  o'er  its  brightness  a  stain ; 
Where,  in  rapture  and  love,  it  shall  ever  adore, 

With  a  gladness  unmingled  with  pain ; 
And    its   thirst   shall   be   slaked    by   the   waters   which 

spring, 
Like  a  river  of  light,  from  the  Throne  of  THE  KING! 

There  is  weeping  on  earth  for  the  lost! 
There  is  bowing  in  grief  to  the  ground  ! 
3 


22  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

But  rejoicing  and  praise  mid  the  sanctified  host, 

For  a  spirit  in  Paradise  found  ! 
Though  brightness  hath  passed  from  the  earth, 
"";    Yet  a  star  is  new-born  in  the  sky, 
And  a  soul  hath  gone  home  to  the  land  of  its  birth, 

Where  are  pleasures  and  fulness  of  joy  ! 
And  a  new  harp  is  strung,  and  a  new  song  is  given 
To  the  breezes  that  float  o'er  the  GARDENS  OF  HEAVEN 


SONG. 

BELIEVE  not  the  slander,  my  dearest  Katrine ! 

For  the  ice  of  the  world  hath  not  frozen  my  heart; 
In  my  innermost  spirit  there  still  is  a  shrine 

Where  thou  art  remembered,  all  pure  as  thou  art : 
The  dark  tide  of  years,  as  it  bears  as  along, 

Though  it  sweep  away  hope  in  its  turbulent  flow, 
Cannot  drown  the  low  voice  of  Love's  eloquent  song, 

Nor  chill  with  its  waters  my  faith's  early  glow. 

True,  the  world  hath  its  snares,  and  the  soul  may  grow 
faint 

In  its  strifes  with  the  follies  and  falsehoods  of  earth  ; 
And  amidst  the  dark  whirl  of  corruption,  a  taint 

May  poison  the  thoughts  that  are  purest  at  birth. 
Temptations  and  trials,  without  and  within, 

From  the  pathway  of  Virtue  the  spirit  may  lure ; 
But  the  soul  shall  grow  strong  in  its  triumphs  o'er  Si 

And  the  heart  shall  preserve  its  integrity  pure. 


24  W.    H.    BURLEIGH  S    POEMS. 

The  finger  of  Love,  on  my  innermost  heart, 

Wrote  thy  name,  oh  adored !  when  my  feelings  were 

young ; 
And  the  record  shall  'bide  till  my  soul  shall  depart, 

And  the  darkness  of  Death  o'er  my  being  be  flung. 
Then  believe  not  the  slander  that  says  I  forget, 

In  the  whirl  of  excitement,  the  love  that  was  thine ; 
Thou  wert  dear  in  my  boyhood — art  dear  to  me  yet — 

For  my  sunlight  of  life  is  the  smile  of  Katrine ! 


STANZAS, 

TO    THE    ABOLITIONISTS    OF    AMEHICA. 

TOIL  and  pray ! 
Groweth  flesh  and  spirit  faint  * 
Think  of  her  who  pours  her  plaint 

All  the  day — 

Her — the  wretched  negro  wife, 
Robbed  of  all  that  sweetens  life — 
Her — who  weeps  in  anguish  wild 
For  the  husband  and  the  child 

Torn  away ! — 

Nature's  ties, 

Binding  heart  with  kindred  heart, 
Rent  remorselessly  apart — 

Tears  and  sighs, 

Shrieks  and  prayers  unheeded  given, 
Calling  out  from  earth  to  heaven — 
All  that  speaks  the  slave's  distress — 
All  that  in  his  cup  doth  press 

Agonies — 


26  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

Wo  and  blight, 

Broken  heart  and  palsied  mind, 
Reason  crushed  and  conscience  blind, 

Darkest  night 

Shutting  from  the  spirit's  eye, 
Light  and  glory  from  on  high — 
Think  of  these — and  falter  not ! 
Toil — until  the  slave  is  brought 

Up  to  light! 

What  though  Hate 
Darkly  scowls  upon  your  path? 
Fear  not  ye  the  tyrant's  wrath — 

Hope,  and  wait — 
For  though  long  the  strife  endure, 
Freedom's  triumph  shall  be  sure — 
Toil  in  faith,  for  God  hath  spoken, 
Every  fetter  shall  be  broken, 

Soon  or  late. 

Not  in  vain 

Hath  been  heard  your  voice  of  warning- 
Lo!  a  better  day  is  dawning; 

And  again 


Shall  be  heard,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Loudest  songs  of  jubilee, 
Bursting  from  a  franchised  nation, 
As  it  leaps  in  exultation 
From  the  chain! 


27 


MORNING. 

Up,  Sluggard,  from  thy  pallet!     Lo,  the  East 
Heralds  the  coming  of  another  day ! 
The  burning  Sun  advanceth,  like  a  God, 
To  fling  his  wealth  of  light  upon  the  world ; 
And  the  gray  mists  that  in  the  vale  have  slept 
Through  all  the  solemn  night,  are  curling  up, 
Slowly  and  silently,  as  if  to  steal 
The  golden  splendor  from  the  Fount  of  Day, 
And  weave  it  in  their  undulating  folds ! 
The  conscious  Earth  is  blushing  in  the  light, 
As  a  coy  maiden,  when  she  meets  the  glance 
Of  an  impassioned  lover — and  the  streams, 
Leaping  and  sparkling  in  the  morning  ray, 
Send  gaily  forth  their  gurgling  melody, 
As  if  they  knew  another  day  was  born. 
The  breezes,  fragrance-laden,  have  awaked 
From  their  brief  slumber,  and  are  flitting  now 
On  their  light  pinions  over  hill  and  plain, 
Wooing  the  perfume  from  the  opening  flowers, 


29 


And  dallying  with  the  leaflets.     Every  tree 

Is  vocal  with  the  melody  of  birds ; 

And  the  awakening  herbage  flings  abroad 

Its  dewy  incense  on  the  odorous  air, 

As  conscious  that  its  Maker  will  accept 

The  grateful  offering — and  many  a  voice 

From  vale  and  mountain  and  from  shady  grove, 

Joins  in  the  general  anthem. 


TO  AN   ORPHAN. 


"  When  thy  father  and  mother  forsake  thee,  then  the  LORD  will 
take  thee  up." 


FORGET  not  Him — forget  not  Him — 

Though  Sorrow  shades  thy  pathway  now, 
And  grows  life's  pleasant  sunshine  dim, 

Whose  light  made  radiant  once  thy  brow — 
For  He  can  soothe  thine  aching  heart, 

And  make  thy  wounded  spirit  whole; 
His  voice  can  bid  the  gloom  depart 

That  darkly  gathers  round  thy  soul. 

Though  Fortune  may  have  sternly  frowned, 

And  crushed  the  budding  hopes  of  youth — 
Though  Joy  in  Misery's  flood  is  drowned, 

And  thou  hast  learned  the  bitter  truth 
That  "  Man  is  born  to  trouble  here," 

And  sorrow  is  our  mortal  lot — 
Yet  still  hope  on — and  though  in  fear, 

Forget  Him  not — forget  Him  not! 


31 


Though  she  who  watched  thine  infant  years 

In  love  that  mothers  only  know, 
May  never  wipe  again  thy  tears, 

Nor  soothe  with  gentlest  voice  thy  wo — 
Nor  bend  again  above  her  girl 

To  kiss  the  hot  and  throbbing  brow, 
Or  wreath  around  her  hand  the  curl 

That  shadows  o'er  thy  temple  now — 

And  though  that  voice,  whose  every  tone 

Was  music  to  thy  listening  ear, 
Hath  from  our  earth  for  ever  gone, 

No  more  to  thrill  thy  spirit  here — 
Yet  feel  not  that  thou  art  all  lonely, 

A  torn  branch  from  the  parent  vine — 
For  that  blest  balm  which  cometh  only 

To  the  meek  spirit,  shall  be  thine  ! 

Despair  thou  not,  though  icy  chill 

The  hand  of  Want  on  thee  may  press — 
It  never  can — it  never  will 

Obscure  thy  spirit's  loveliness! 
Though  dark,  perchance,  hath  been  thy  morn, 

And  angry  clouds  have  gathered  o'er; 
A  brighter  day  for  thee  shall  dawn, 

And  sorrow  flee  for  evermore  ! 


32  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

There  is  one  heart  which  beats  with  thine — 

Which  saddens  when  thine  eye  is  sad — 
Aches,  when  thy  spirit  doth  repine, 

And  thrills  with  joy  when  thou  art  glad! 
That  lonely  heart  will  love  thee  still, 

When  falser  ones  have  turned  away ; 
Unchanged  alike  in  joy  or  ill, 

Cling  fondly  unto  thine  for  aye! 

And  when  that  heart,  as  soon  it  must, 

Lies  mouldering  beneath  the  sod, 
Still  there  is  ONE  in  whom  to  trust — 

The  orphan's  FATHER  and  her  GOD  ! 
Forget  not  Him — forget  not  Him, 

And  e'en  on  earth  thou  shalt  be  blessed ; 
And,  when  thy  lamp  of  life  is  dim, 

His  hand  shall  guide  thee  to  thy  rest! 


BEAUTY. 

BEAUTY  can  never  die.    The  tinted  cheek 
May  lose  its  delicate  color,  and  the  brow 
Reveal  the  furrows  of  unsparing  Time — 
The  eye  forget  its  lustre,  and  the  voice 
Gush  forth  no  more  in  music — Age  may  bow 
The  now  unequalled  form,  and  chain  the  step 
Whose  touch  elastic  crushes  scarce  the  flower — 
Wo,  Want,  Disease,  and  Death,  each  in  his  turn, 
May  wreak  his  vengeance  on  the  suffering  clay, 
Till  to  the  sensual  eye  no  grace  remains — 
Yet  not  one  ray  of  that  internal  fire 
Which  is  the  life  of  beauty,  and  its  a//, 
Shall  e'er  be  quenched  or  dimmed !     It  liveth  on, 
The  same  ethereal  essence — chance  nor  change 
Can  pale  its  light,  nor  mar  its  perfectness — 
The  gift  of  God,  eternal  as  Himself, 
It  grows  in  glory  as  its  years  increase ! 

Such  beauty,  dearest  Isadore!  is  thine— 
The  beauty  of  a  soul  that  long  hath  held 
Companionship  with  purity  and  truth, 
And  known  their  deepest,  holiest  baptism ! 


EMANCIPATION  IN  THE  WEST  INDIES. 

WHERE  laugh  the  bright  Antilles 

Amid  the  Southern  main, 
Oppression  long  in  pride  had  ruled 

With  bloody  scourge  and  chain — 
The  negro,  crushed  beneath  his  hand, 

Bent  at  his  cheerless  toil, 
And  poured  his  unavailing  tears 

Upon  the  thirsty  soil. 

Curses  and  groans  went  upward 

Continually  to  God, 
And  shrieks  which  vexed  the  quiet  air 

Where'er  the  tyrant  trod — 
The  negro's  cup  was  dregged  with  tears, 

And — darkest,  dreariest  fate — 
His  fetters  clanked  within  his  soul, 

And  made  it  desolate. 

Year  after  year  of  bondage 

The  self-same  story  told 
Of  guilt,  and  woe,  and  severed  hearts, 

Mothers  and  children  sold — 


w.  H.  BUKLEIGH'S  POEMS.  35 

Hopes  crushed,  affections  blighted,  ties 

The  holiest,  rent  in  twain, 
And  myriad  victims  flung  upon 

Thy  bloody  altar,  Gain! 

*   v 

God  saw  it  all ! — the  record 

Was  traced  before  His  eye — 
And  in  His  own  good  time  He  sent 

Deliverance  from  on  high  ! 
For  the  oppression  of  the  poor 

He  rose,  and  shook  the  earth ; 

,x 
His  hand  unlocked  the  prison  door 

And  led  the  captives  forth. 

Then  swelled  the  choral  anthem 

Those  sunny  isles  among — 
The  freedman  shouted  in  his  joy, 

And  songs  were  on  his  tongue — 
Songs  of  thanksgiving — bursts  of  prayer, 

On  every  hill  were  heard; 
The  vales  were  vocal,  and  the  air 

With  melody  was  stirred  ! 

Praise  to  Thy  name,  Jehovah  ! 
Who  hath  deliverance  wrought ! — 


36 


We  view  the  wonders  of  Thy  power, 

With  reverential  thought; 
We  cry  to  Thee  in  faith — oh  Lord ! 

Stretch  forth  Thy  helping  hand, — 
Break  the  strong  fetters  of  the  slave, 

And  spare  our  guilty  land ! 


WINTER. 

How  beautiful  is  Winter!     Earth  hath  put 
Her  snowy  vesture  on,  and  the  wide  fields 
Glisten  beneath  the  radiance  of  the  sun, 
A  waveless  ocean  of  most  dazzling  white. 
In  the  slant  sunbeams  flashing,  the  tall  trees 
Lift  up  their  jewelled  crests,  with  regal  pride, 
As  conscious  of  their  beauty, — and,  at  times, 
By  the  faint  wind  caressed,  profusely  fling 
Down  to  the  earth,  the  burden  of  their  gems. 
The  Frost,  with  his  most  cunning  ministry, 
Hath  visited  the  streams,  whose  drowsy  song, 
Through  the  long  summer  time,  continuously 
Stirred  the  soft  air — and  stream  and  song  are  still 
Yet  might  the  ripple's  curl  deceive  the  eye, 
So  much  it  looks  like  motion — and  the  wave 
Still  seems  to  fret  along  its  rocky  bed, 
And  dash  adown  the  cascade  with  its  spray. 
Where,  o'er  the  deep  ravine,  the  precipice 
Frowns,  and  the  water  from  its  hidden  springs 
4* 


38 


Trickled,  erewhile,  along  the  rocky  ledge 

And  sought  with  frequent  plunge  the  depth  below, 

See !  in  what  varied  and  fantastic  forms 

Those  drops,  congealed,  are  wrought !   How  different  all ; 

Yet  all,  how  beautiful !     Pillars  of  pearl, 

Propping  the  cliffs  above — stalactites  bright 

From  the  ice-roof  depending ;  and  beneath, 

Grottoes  and  temples  with  their  crystal  spires 

And  gleaming  columns  radiant  in  the  sun — 

Thrones  carved  from  purest  porphyry,  whereon  sit 

Tall  warrior-forms  in  coats  of  dazzling  mail — 

And  strown  profusely  over  all,  rich  gems 

Shifting,  with  rainbow  hues,  and  flashing  back 

The  intrusive  sunlight — these  are  thine,  Oh  Frost ! 

Thy  marvellous  doings,  wizard  Architect! 

For  thus  thou  praisest  God ! — and  we  will  praise 

His  name  with  hymns,  that  He  has  sent  us  thee 

With  power  to  make  the  Winter  beautiful. 


1837. 

A  NEW  YEAR'S  FANCY. 

AN  old  man  stood  on  a  precipice-verge — 

A  gray  old  man  was  he  ; 
And  a  saddened  light  was  in  his  eye, 
As  the  mourner  wind  went  sighing  by, 

And  his  glance  was  on  the  sea : 
Below  his  feet  was  the  warring  surge, 
Where  the  crested  waves  each  other  urge 
In  fury  and  wrath  to  the  ragged  rocks, 
That  quiver  not  to  their  mighty  shocks, 

However  fierce  they  be. 

Bowed  with  age  was  the  old  man's  form. 

And  his  cheek  was  deeply  ploughed 
With  the  share  of  Time — or  haply,  Thought 
On  the  old  man's  face  those  furrows  wrought. 

While  his  bearing  yet  was  proud ; 
For  the  blood  of  Youth  may  still  be  warm. 

While  the  brow  bears  record  of  many  a  storm 

.. 


40  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

That  the  tortured  thought  has  known  within, 
When  the  quickened  spirit  fought  with  sin, 
Or  the  woes  that  on  it  crowd. 

Quaint  was  the  dress  that  the  old  man  wore, 

For  a  queer  old  man  was  he; 
His  bony  legs  were  crowded  in 
To  tight  small  breeks  of  a  white  bear's  skin, 

All  buckled  at  the  knee: 
A  blanket  was  flung  his  shoulders  o'er, 
And  pinned  with  icicles  up  before; 
Like  a  thin  snow-wreath,  above  them  all, 
Gleaming  and  bright,  was  a  shadowy  pall : 

'T  was  a  solemn  sight  to  see! 

With  a  troubled  mind,  the  old  man  thought 
On  the  waves  that  foamed  below; 

He  tottered  along  to  the  farthest  verge 

Of  the  slippery  rock,  and  viewed  the  surge 
With  an  aspect  full  of  wo  : 

What  in  the  deep  the  old  man  sought, 

Legend  or  lay  revealeth  not; 

But  his  gaze  was  long,  and  his  eye  grew  dim, 

Till  in  blinding  tears  it  seemed  to  swim  : 
Why  wept  the  old  man  so? 


41 


Over  his  head  was  a  broken  tree, 

Killed  by  the  lightning-stroke ; 
And  an  owl  sat  there  with  half-closed  eye, 
And  poured  on  the  air  his  boding  cry, 

Till  the  mountain  echoes  woke : 
And,  floating  over  the  solemn  sea, 
A  mournful  dirge  it  seemed  to  be — 
A  mournful  dirge  for  the  buried  dead; 
And  sadly  the  old  man  raised  his  head, 
And  feebly,  faintly  spoke: 

"  The  death-song  of  the  Year  ! 
It  tells  me  that  my  errand  here  is  done, 
That  I  have  gazed  upon  my  latest  sun — 

What  further  do  I  here? 
Trembling  above  the  ocean  of  the  Past, 
Yet  feebly  clinging  while  my  moments  last — 

"  Clinging  to  Life — in  vain  ! — 

The  deep  sea  yawns  before  me — 't  is  the  grave 
Of  vanished  Years.     Oblivion's  turbid  wave 

Flings  not  to  light  again 
The  buried  treasures  of  the  olden  time — 
Rolling  alike  o'er  Innocence  and  Crime ! 


42  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

"  I  go — and  as  I  die, 

The  gay  will  laugh,  forgetful  of  their  doom, 
Frolicking  on  the  borders  of  the  tomb 

In  thoughtless  revelry: 
Let  them  sport  on  beneath  their  sunny  sky ; 
Too  soon,  alas,  the  storm  will  hurtle  by ! 

"In  the  lone  closet  now, 

Clasping  the  hallowed  Book,  the  good  man  kneels, 
Communing  with  the  Past,  while  faintly  steals 

Across  his  placid  brow 

The  mournful  light  of  memory,  soft  and  dim — 
Oh,  holy  treasures  hath  this  hour  for  him  ! 

"  With  love  that  cannot  tire, 
The  mourning  mother  by  the  cradle-bed 
Watches  her  wailing  infant,  while  its  head 

Burns  with  the  fever-fire ! 

The  cold  gray  morn  will  come  and  find  her  there — 
The  living  with  the  dead— Death  and  Despair ! 

"  The  giddy  world  wheels  on, 
Unmindful  of  the  lessons  of  the  Past ; 
Yet  one  more  warning — it  will  be  my  last — 

The  Old  Year's  dying  tone; 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  43 

Mortal!  we  meet  again:  so  live,  while  here, 
That  you  may  call  your  last  your  happiest   year." 

The  old  man  paused — for  the  icy  rock 

Quivered  beneath  his  tread ; 
An  angry  scowl  came  over  the  sky, 
And  a  sudden  earthquake  thundered  by — 

'Twas  an  hour  of  fear  and  dread  ! 
The  tall  old  mountains  felt  the  shock, 
And  the  sea  heaved  up,  as  if  to  mock 
The  old  man's  terror  and  despair, 
As  he  gurgled  out  his  dying  prayer — 

And  THIRTY-SEVEN  was  dead  ! 

Trembling,  quivering  on  the  air, 
Like  the  solemn  voice  of  prayer 
Heard  amid  the  forests  dim, 
Rose  a  low  and  mournful  hymn — 
Faintly  now,  as  if  its  tones 
Trembled  into  dying  moans, 
Or  were  almost  hushed  to  peace, 
Waiting  for  the  soul's  release — 
Then  again  in  triumph  swelling 
Upward  to  the  spirit's  dwelling, 


44 


Ringing  through  the  clear  blue  sky 
With  a  sudden  melody ! 

'Twas  the  requiem  of  the  Year, 
Chanted  in  another  sphere ! 
Fairy  harps  were  faintly  ringing, 
Elfin  voices  low  were  singing, 
While  the  spirits  of  the  air 
Poured  their  willing  music  there ; 
And,  if  rendered  not  amiss, 
Something  was  their  song  like  this : 

"  Oh,  weep  for  the  Earth  and  the  children  of  men ! 
Awake  the  sad  music  of  mountain  and  glen ! 
Pour  out  the  deep  voice  of  lament  on  the  blast, 
For  a  Year  hath  gone  down  to  the  grave  of  the  Past ! 

"  A  Year ! — and  the  Earth  waxeth  old  in  its  sin, 
Though  the  fires  of  destruction  burn  hotly  within ; 
Though  her  end  draweth  near,  and  the  time  will  not  wait 
W^hen  the  voice  of  the  Spoiler  shall  sound  at  her  gate  ! 

"  Lament !  for  the  Year,  with  its  promise  of  bliss, 
Hath  gone  from  a  world  full  of  mourning  like  this ; 
And  the  hopes  that  it  brought  have  been  trampled  in  dust, 
And  its  paths  have  been  paved  with  the  hearts  of  the  just ! 


45 


"  Rejoice !  for  the  day  of  redemption  draws  nigh  ! 
Let  loud  hallelujahs  resound  through  the  sky  ! 
Let  the  Years  roll  away,  and  the  darkness  shall  flee — 
Rejoice  and  exult,  for  THE  EARTH  SHALL  BE  FRRE  !" 


CHARLES  FOLLEN. 

FROM    THE    GERMAK. 

QUENCHED  is  another  star,  which  burned 

With  steady  light  and  lustre  pure ; 
Though  others  from  their  orbits  turned, 

Its  course  on  Freedom's  path  was  sure: 
Though  round  it  roared  the  storms  of  time 

And  vapors  gathered  thick  and  black, 
Still  onward,  in  its  strength  sublime, 

It  swerved  not  from  its  radiant  track. 

A  heart  that  glowed  with  warmth  divine, 

Pleading  for  human  rights,  is  still — 
In  faith,  in  courage  how  like  thine, 

Brave  HERMANN  ! — unsubdued  by  ill ! 
With  lyre  and  sword  amid  the  fight, 

None  struck  a  surer  blow  than  he, 
That  from  the  holy  seed  there  might 

Come  the  rich  fruits  of  Liberty  ! 


w.  ii.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  47 

A  harp — 'twas  Freedom's  own — whose  strings 

Trembled  with  music  rich  and  rare, 
Like  tones  some  wandering  seraph  flings 

Abroad  upon  the  twilight  air, 
Lies  shattered  now — its  master-bard 

Is  gathered  with  Death's  countless  throng — 
Alas  ! — that  henceforth  can  be  heard 

Only  the  echo  of  his  song. 

Science !  a  chosen  priest  of  thine 

Is  snatched  away,  whose  liberal  hand 
Flung  richest  offerings  on  thy  shrine, 

And  oped,  to  his  adopted  land, 
The  priceless  treasures  of  his  own — 

With  gifts  and  graces  to  adorn 
The  ranks  where  he  conspicuous  shone, 

Of  choicest  spirits,  German-born. 

Whilst  warred  the  elements  around — 

Flood,  Frost,  and  Fire — he  heard  a  call ; 
The  fleshly  fetter  was  unbound, 

And  the  freed  soul,  o'erleaping  all, 
Soared  to  the  mansions  of  the  blest, 

Where  pain  and  sorrow  cannot  be. 
He  whom  two  worlds  with  love  caressed, 

Is  covered  by  the  soundless  sea! 


THE  DYING  SLAVE. 

FROM    THE    GERMAN    OF    W.    L.    I.    KIDERLETf. 

AROUND  the  sick-bed  of  their  gray-haired  friend 
Stand  brother  slaves  in  silence,  while  each  face 
Reveals  the  anguish  that  the  spirit  feels, 
As  homeward  to  their  distant  country,  turns 
Their  old  companion.     Suddenly  he  spoke  : 

"  Slowly  my  strength  is  ebbing — and  the  band, 
That  long  hath  held  the  soul  to  cumbrous  clay, 
Loosens — while  springs  exultingly  away 

The  fetterless  spirit  to  our  Fatherland ; 

To  live  anew  'midst  blessedness  unspoken, 
Its  sorrows  vanished  and  its  fetters  broken. 

"  Brothers — farewell !     Oh,  never  more  for  me 
Be  your  cheeks  stained  with  weeping — for  is  not 
Mine,  after  years  of  pain,  a  joyful  lot, 

From  the  oppressor's  hate,  scorn,  avarice  free1? 
My  soul  even  longs  to  know  this  body  thrust 
In  Earth's  dark  womb — dust  to  its  kindred  dust. 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  49 

«« Let  not  the  white  man,  with  his  words  of  guile, 
Deceive  your  hearts — but,  faithful  unto  death, 
Hold  fast,  through  all,  your  father's  better  faith — 

For  gladly  in  their  malice,  would  they  wile 
Even  this  away — those  batteners  on  our  blood — 
And  rob  you  of  your  last  remaining  good. 

"Smooth  words  they  speak  of  God's  impartial  love, 
That,  haply,  they  may  lure  you  to  the  CROSS — 
Believe  them  not — their  promises  are  dross — 

By  the  red  scourge  that  tears  our  backs  they  prove 
Their  hearts  are  stone,  their  eyes  know  not  compassion, 
But  on  our  anguish  gleam  with  exultation. 

"Who  loves  the  arrow  that  hath  drank  his  gore1? 
Implacable,  eternal,  be  your  hate 
Of  the  hard  tyrants  who,  with  pride  elate, 

Have  trod  you  down.     But  this  with  me  is  o'er — 
Enough  that  our  worn  bodies  drag  the  chain — 
Free,  free  till  death  our  spirits  shall  remain," 

And  with  the  last  word  on  his  quivering  lips, 
Heavily  sinks  his  gray  head  on  his  breast — 
Life's  latest  sands  are  shaken  from  the  glass, 

And  naked  stands  the  soul  before  its  God. 
5* 


HYMN, 

SUNG  AT    A  SABBATH    SCHOOL  CELEBRATION    ON  THE  FOURTH 
OF    JULY. 

THIS  is  our  Freedom's  natal  day, 

And  on  thy  bloodless  altar,  Lord! 
Our  sacrifice  of  praise  we  lay, 

In  solemn  joy  with  one  accord. 

Not  with  the  warlike  pageant's  pomp, 
Not  with  the  sound  of  fife  and  drum, 

Not  with  the  blast  of  the  mighty  tromp, 
Into  thy  holy  house  we  come ! 

No  war-rent  banner  flouts  the  sky 
In  pride  above  our  gathered  ranks — 

No  red-mouthed  cannon  gives  reply 
In  thunder  to  our  solemn  thanks. 

The  praises  of  our  warrior-sires — 
The  blood-bought  honors  of  the  dead, 

We  pour  not  from  our  tuneful  lyres, 
Jehovah !  as  Thy  courts  we  tread. 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  51 

Thine  are  the  honors  which  we  pay, 
As  in  Thy  temple-gates  we  stand — 

Thine  be  the  triumphs  of  the  day  ! 
And  this,  the  Sabbath  of  our  land  ! 

We  celebrate  our  Nation's  birth, 

Not  with  profane,  unholy  songs — 
Not  amid  rioting  and  mirth — 

But  with  hosannas  on  our  tongues  ! 

Blessing  Thy  goodness  for  the  past, 

And  trustful  of  thy  favor  still, 
We  hold  each  precious  promise  fast, 

And  humbly  wait  to  know  Thy  will. 


EXPOSTULATION. 

ADDRESSED    TO    A    LADY    WHO     SUFFERED     DESPOXDEXCY     TO 
OVERCOME    HER    LOVE    OF    LITERARY    PURSUITS. 

MINSTREL  of  the  pensive  lyre ! 

Wherefore  sleeps  thy  harp  so  long? 
Wake  again  its  strings  of  fire — 

Pour  anew  thy  witching  song. 
Lives  with  thee  the  power  to  bind 
In  the  silken  bonds  of  mind, 
Hopes,  and  fears,  and  thoughts,  and  feelings, 
All  the  spirit's  high  revealings — 
Thou  canst  chain  them  with  a  spell, 

In  a  bondage  sweet  and  strong. 
With  the  charm  unspeakable 

Which  abideth  in  thy  song. 

Maiden  minstrel!  can  the  thrush 

Be  unmindful  of  her  lay, 
When  upon  the  forests  gush 

Glories  of  the  rising  day  1 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  53 

Can  the  lark  with  tuneful  throat 
Be  oblivious  of  his  note, 
As  he  soars  with  tireless  pinion 
Upward  to  the  cloud's  dominion, 
Drinking  in  the  beauties  born 
Of  the  rising  mists  of  Morn, 
As  they  catch  the  virgin  ray 
Streaming  from  the  Fount  of  Day  ? 

Can  the  harp  by  fairies  kept, 

Viewless,  in  the  wavy  air, 
By  the  wizard  breezes  swept, 

E'er  forget  its  music  there1? 
Can  the  song,  that  Zephyr  weaves 
Gaily  in  the  forest  leaves, 
Cease  its  witching  notes  to  fling 
Out  upon  the  Zephyr's  wing1? 
Can  the  stars  that  sung  together 

When  the  Universe  was  born, 
As  they  track  the  boundless  ether, 

Watching  for  the  golden  dawn, 
Hush  the  harmony,  which  erst 

From  their  spiritual  lyres 
Like  a  living  torrent  burst 

Echoing  to  Heaven's  choirs  ? 


54  w.  ii.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

Can  it  be  that  one  like  thee, 
Child  of  sweetest  Poesy  ! 
With  a  power  to  waken  song 

Whose  surpassing  eloquence 

With  a  rapture  most  intense 
Thrills  the  listener's  heart  along 
And  the  witchery  knowing  well 
That  in  poets'  numbers  dwell — 
Still  will  keep  thy  harp  unstrung 
Idly  on  the  willow  hung  I 
Is  an  evil  spell  upon  thee  ? 
Hath  despair  for  ever  won  thee? 
Shutting  glory  from  thine  eyes, 
Checking  even  the  wish  to  rise? 
Nay  ! — nor  ever  shall  it  be — 
Deathless  fame  awaiteth  thee ! 
Break  the  fetters  which  have  bound  thee 

In  their  icy  thrall ! 
Up  ! — and  friends  shall  crowd  around  thee 

Eager  at  thy  call — 
Let  thy  spirit  never  more 

At  its  lot  repine, 
For,  the  night  of  darkness  o'er, 

Glory  shall  be  thine  ! 


STANZAS, 

WRITTEN    ON    VISITING    MT    BIRTH-PLACE    AFTER    YEARS    OF 
ABSENCE. 

WE  are  scattered — we  are  scattered — 

Though  a  jolly  band  were  we ! 
Some  sleep  beneath  the  grave-sod, 

And  some  are  o'er  the  sea; 
And  Time  hath  wrought  his  changes 

On  the  few  who  yet  remain; 
The  joyous  band  that  once  we  were 

We  cannot  be  again ! 

We  are  scattered — we  are  scattered  ! — 

Upon  the  village  green, 
Where  we  played  in  boyish  recklessness, 

How  few  of  us  are  seen ! 
And  the  hearts  that  beat  so  lightly 

In  the  joyousness  of  youth — 
Some  are  crumbled  in  the  sepulchre,' 

And  some  have  lost  their  truth. 


56  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 


The  Beautiful— the  Beautiful 

Are  faded  from  our  track ! 
We  miss  tnem  and  we  mourn  them, 

But  we  cannot  lure  them  back; 
For  an  iron  sleep  hath  bound  them 

In  its  passionless  embrace — 
\Ve  may  weep — but  cannot  win  them 

From  their  dreary  .resting-place. 

How  mournfully — how  mournfully 

The  memory  doth  come 
Of  the  thousand  scenes  of  happiness 

Around  our  childhood's  home ! 
A  salutary  sadness 

Is  brooding  o'er  the  heart, 
As  it  dwells  upon  remembrances 

From  which  it  will  not  part. 

The  memory — the  memory — 

How  fondly  doth  it  gaze 
Upon  the  magic  loveliness 

Of  childhood's  fleeting  days ! 
The  sparkling  eye — the  thrilling  tone — 

The  smile  upon  its  lips — 
They  all  have  goiV — but  left  a  light 

Which  time  cannot  eclipse. 


w.  H.  BTTBLEIOH'S  POEMS.  57 

The  happiness— the  ha;    incss 

Of  boyhood  must  depa:  t 
Then  comes  thr  <ense  of  lordliness 

Upon  the  stricken  heart ! 
We  will  not,  or  we  cannot  fling 

Its  sadness  from  our  breast — 
Wecrnig  to*  it  instinctively — 

We  pant  for  its 

We  are  scattered — we  are  scattered"! 

Yet  may  we  meet  again 
In  a  brighter  and  a  purer  spheie. 

Beyond  the  reach  of  pain ! 
Where  the  shadows  of  this  lower  world 

Can  never  cloud  the  eye — 
When  the  mortal  hath  put   brightly  on 

Its  IMMORTALITY  ! 


BENJAMIN  LUNDY. 

Wo !  for  thy  many  triumphs,  Death ! 
Wo!  that  the  righteous  perisheth, 

And  no  man  layeth  it  to  heart ! 
Yet  hath  his  spirit  sweet  release, 
His  troubles  and  his  trials  cease, 
And  ever  in  the  perfect  peace 

Of  God  he  hath  a  part. 

Such  bliss  is  thine,  oh  thou !   whose  name 
By  generous  deeds  is  linked  to  fame — 
Thou — whom  no  danger  could  appal 
When  mindful  of  the  heavenly  call, 
To  loose  the  slave  from  tyrant-thrall, 

Thy  country  from  its  shame — 
Nor  toil,  nor  pain,  nor  scorn,  nor  wrath, 
Nor  ruffian  threats  of  stripes  and  death, 
Could  turn  thee  back  from  duty's  path, 

In  courage  still  the  same. 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  59 

In  other  days,  when  Slavery's  power 

Had  triumphed  in  an  evil  hour, 

And  wearied  with  the  bootless  strife — 

With  fainting  heart  and  feeble  hand, 

Dejected  stood  the  Spartan  band, 
Who  warred  for  right  as  men  for  life — 

To  thee  'twas  given  to  rouse  the  land  : 
Young,  poor,  untitled,  and  unknown, 
With  fearless  breath  thy  trump  was  blown, 
And  on  the  winds  thy  banner  thrown 

Abroad  with  single  hand! 

Weeks,  months,  and  years  went  by,  and  still, 
Amidst  accumulated  ill, 

Thy  spirit  shrank  not  from  its  trial; 
But,  true  to  God  and  human  weal, 
Pressed  on  with  unabated  zeal, 

In  peril  and  in  self-denial — 
Till,  roused  by  thee,  the  good  awoke — 

The  dreamless  sleep  of  years  was  broke — 

Men  started  from  repose,  and  saw 
The  trampled  slave,  with  lifted  eye, 
Imploring  in  his  agony 
The  Christian's  succor  ere  he  die — 

The  blessings  of  the  Christian's  law — 


60  vv.   H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

And  underneath  thy  banner's  fold, 
The  aged  man,  the  stripling  bold, 
In  mustering  multitudes  enrolled, 
And  hurried  to  the  war ! 

Peace  be  to  thee  who  gave  no  peace 
To  Freedom's  foes  till  life  did  cease ! 

Oh,  hadst  thou  lived  to  see 
The  triumph  of  thy  noble  cause, 
The  reign  of  RIGHT  and  EQUAL  LAWS, 
And  listen  to  the  world's  applause, 

Which  yet  shall  sound  for  thee — 
How  had  thy  spirit  leaped  to  join, 
With  strength  and  ecstacy  divine, 

The  anthem  of  the  free ! 

Rest,  FRIEND  OF  MAN! — thy  grave  shall  be 

Henceforth  a  shrine,  where  pilgrim-feet 
Shall  press  the  turf  that  covers  thee — 

And  pilgrims'  lips  thy  deeds  repeat — 
How,  in  an  evil  age  and  time, 
Thy  voice  rebuked  the  tyrant's  crime, 
And  bade  the  bondman  hope  and  wait 
The  coming  of  a  happier  fate, 
When  Freedom's  mandate  should  be  spoken, 
And  every  yoke  and  fetter  broken. 


61 


The  slave,  upspringing  from  his  chain, 

The  tyrant,  from  his  guilt  set  free, 
Shall  wet  thy  grave  with  tears,  like  rain. 

Weeping  and  blessing  thee  ! 

And  until  Time  his  flight  shall  end, 
Thy  deeds  of  daring  shall  be  known — 
The  moral  triumphs  thou  hast  won — 

LUNDY — THE  SLAVE'S  UNFAILING  FRIEND  ! 
A  PEOPLE'S  CHAMPION! 


6* 


AN  APPEAL  TO  A  CLERICAL  FRIEND. 

THOU  art  a  teacher  sent  from  Heaven !     Tis  well ! 
Heaven's  vows  are  on  thy  soul — and  He  who  gave 
Thy  dread  commission,  hath  with  legible  hand 
Written  his  requisitions.     Read  with  fear — 
Study  their  solemn  import,  with  a  heart 
Willing  to  know  and  do,  and  pray  for  strength 
To  meet  the  dread  responsibility. 

Thou  art  God's  champion  for  the  truth  !  'Tis  well ! 
Stand  boldly,  then,  and  in  the  strength  of  Him 
W"ho  clad  thy  spirit  in  the  panoply 
Heaven  gives  its  warriors,  battle  manfully 
With  ancient  Falsehood  and  her  horrid  brood — 
With  Fraud  and  Error,  and  the  legioned  Lies 
That  walk  with  shameless  front  through  all  the  earth 
And  claim  it  as  their  own. 

Fling  to  the  air 

The  banners  of  IMMANUEL  !  and  beneath 
Their  snowy  folds,  where  blood-stain  hath  not  been 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  63 

Save  of  the  victor,  strike  for  GOD  ! — strike  home  ! 
And  prove  thyself  no  recreant. 

Look  abroad  ! 

Guilt  triumphs  in  the  land,  and  fearless  grown, 
Exults  in  her  immunity.     Shall  Earth, 
Formed  for  thy  glory,  LORD  !  henceforth  be  hers 
Without  a  struggle  1     Shall  its  prostrate  realms 
Bow  to  her  sway,  and  kiss  the  bloody  rod 
She  proudly  shakes  above  them  1     God  forefend  ! 

Speak !  Champion  of  the  Cross  !    Uplift  thy  voice 
And  pour  its  warning,  like  a  trumpet-tone, 
Through  all  the  startled  land  !     To  Israel 
Reveal  her  great  transgression,  and  the  house 
Of  Jacob  point  thou  to  its  crimson  sins. 
Spare  not — for  even  the  Church  is  stained  with  guilt, 
And  on  her  robes,  once  white,  pollution  reeks, 
And  her  skirts  drip  with  blood,  while  yet  she  hugs 
All  foul  abominations  to  her  heart ! 
Justice  hath  fallen  in  the  street,  beneath 
The  heels  of  ruffian  tramplers — Truth  is  driven 
Forth  from  the  temples  of  the  Living  God — 
Mercy  grows  faint  with  pleading  long  in  vain — 
While  rampant  Murder  and  unsated  Lust, 
Bloated  Oppression  and  foul  Avarice, 


64 


A  hateful  brotherhood,  walk  hand  in  hand ; 
And  the  false  priest,  while  hiding  in  his  robe 
The  price  of  bartered  souls,  looks  on  and  smiles  ! 
Cry  ! — for  the  good  man  faileth.     Call  aloud  ! 
Lift  up  thy  voice  for  truth  and  righteousness ! 
For  God  and  for  His  Kingdom  lift  it  up  ! 
If  thou  art  dumb,  the  stones  beneath  thy  feet 
Shall  have  a  voice!     Earth  cannot  be  thus  dumb — 
Earth — which  hath  drunk  the  blood  of  Innocence — 
Earth — which  hath  hidden  in  her  breast  the  slain, 
Shall  bare  her  crimson  record  to  Heaven's  eye, 
And  call  aloud  for  vengeance ! 

Man  of  God ! 

Is  this  a  time  for  folding  of  the  hands  ? 
A  time  for  sleep1? — while  darkly  in  the  sky 
Retributive  judgments  gather,  such  as  smote 
Egypt  in  ancient  time,  till  Ruin  trod 
Sole  monarch  of  the  land,  and  wildly  rose 
From  all  her  fanes  and  myriad  palaces 
A  universal  wail — a  Kingdom's  cry 
Of  anguish  for  her  multitudinous  dead  ! 
Up !  ere  the  coming  vengeance  overwhelm 
The  guilty  People  and  the  guiltier  Priest! — 
Up !  ere  the  fiery  ruin  hurtle  down 


w.  H.  BTJRLEIGH'S  POEMS.  65 

Upon  our  country,  to  consume  and  waste, 
Until,  where  now  is  Beauty,  Death  shall  sit 
Upon  the  smouldering  ashes  of  our  hopes, 
Pointing  his  bony  finger  to  a  scene 
Of  wo,  and  desolation,  and  despair ! 


STANZAS  FOR  THE  NEW-YEAR. 

DOWN  the  dark  tide  of  Time,  with  flow 

Unceasing,  hath  another  year 
Its  record  borne  of  joy  and  wo, 

Hope,  exultation,  fear — 
With  constant  force  through  shade  and  sun, 
The  swelling  stream  hath  hurried  on, 
And  flung  its  shattered  wave  at  last 
Into  the  ocean  of  the  Past. 
One  moment  in  the  fitful  light 

Flashed  the  frail  bubbles  as  they  fell — 
Then  bursting,  vanished  from  the  sight, 
And  shrilly  the  wild  winds  of  Night 

Shrieked  the  OLD  YEAR'S  farewell ! 

So  hath  it  gone — and  with  it  borne 
Treasures  that  Time  cannot  return : 
High  hopes — that  o'er  existence  threw 
The  glory  of  their  rainbow  hue. 
And  to  the  Future  gave  a  light 

Like  that  which  shone  in  Eden's  bowers 
In  earliest  time — too  purely  bright 

For  such  a  world  as  ours: 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  67 

Dreams — such  as  lull  the  poet's  soul 

And  fill  it  with  divinest  thought, 
Till  underneath  its  meek  control 

Passion,  and  pride,  and  sense  are  brought: 
Desires  that  overleaped  the  earth, 

And  proudly  turning  from  the  real, 
Claimed  in  a  higher  world  their  birth, 

Grasping  the  mystic  and  ideal : 
And  more  than  these — the  love  which  flung 
Its  blessed  light  Life's  clouds  among, 
Till  to  the  waiting  soul  was  given 
Bright  glimpses  of  the  upper  Heaven. 

So  hath  it  gone — and  oh  !  not  all 

Who  hailed  in  thoughtless  mood  its  birth, 
With  music  and  with  festival — 

Still  with  their  presence  gladden  earth. 
The  Beautiful — whose  radiant  smile 

Like  sunshine  fell  upon  the  heart, 
And  who  with  words  of  cheer  the  while, 
Lovingly  spoken,  could  beguile 
The  spirit's  grief,  and  reconcile 

The  living  to  life's  cureless  smart — 

Oh!  early  summoned  to  depart! 
We  miss  you  from  our  common  track; 
We  weep — but  cannot  win  you  back ! 


68  \v.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

The  sunshine  of  your  smile  is  flung 

On  brows  that  wear  no  trace  of  sorrow, 

The  radiant  hosts  of  Heaven  among — 

And  richer  notes  are  on  your  tongue 

Than  e'er  from  harps  jEolian  rung, 

Or  Earth  from  Music's  self  could  borrrow. 

We  mourn — but  not  for  you  whose  eyes 
Have  closed  on  earth  to  ope  in  heaven — 

The  freed  from  mortal  agonies— 
To  whom  eternal  rest  is  given ! 

Our  tears  are  for  the  living  only — 

For  sorrowing  hearts  whose  hopes  are  fled 
"Whose  memories  are  with  the  dead — 

For  them — the  crushed  and  lonely. 

So  hath  it  gone — the  olden  Year — 
Life's  wrecks  upon  its  vanished  wave — 

Nor  pauses  in  his  dread  career 

Death's  ally  and  his  charioteer, 
Sweeping,  remorseless,  to  the  grave, 
Alike  the  tyrant  and  the  slave, 
The  good  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 

The  peasant  and  the  peer; 

And  sadly  swells  on  every  gale 

The  death-dirge  and  the  funeral  wail. 


W.    H.    BURLEIGH  S    POE3IS. 

Pass  on — God's  minister  of  wrath  ! 

"  Time,  the  Avenger !" — pass  thou  on — 
Though  in  thy  desolating  path 

Are  wrecks  of  Empires  strown ! 
What  though  the  Good  have  sunk  beneath 
Thy  billowy  surge,  struck  down  by  Death  I 

They  to  their  rest  have  gone  ! 
And  nearer  to  its  final  fall — 

Nearer  to  his  dishonored  tomb — 
The  Babel  by  Oppression  built, 
The  tyrant,  hardened  in  his  guilt, 
For  redly  burns  upon  the  wall 

The  writing  of  their  doom  ! 

Pass  on — returnless  years !     Ye  bring 

Nearer  the  golden  age  of  Time — 
When  man,  no  more  an  abject  thing, 
Shall  from  the  sleep  of  ages  spring, 
With  new-born  life,  and  proudly  fling 

Aside  his  bondage  and  his  crime, 
And  rising  in  his  manhood,  be 
What  God  designed  him — pure  and  free ! 


70  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

And  Earth,  throughout  her  every  clime, 
No  more  the  spoil  of  human  hate, 
By  sin  no  longer  desolate — 

Returned  her  bloom — renewed  her  prime — 

Shall  in  her  Eden-dress  appear; 
Exulting  in  her  youth  restored, 
And  singing  praises  to  the  Lord, 

Through  all  her  New— her  SABBATH-YEAR! 


SONNET. 

A  DREAMY  whisper  from  the  sweet  South-west, 
Borne  on  the  just-awakened  Zephyr's  wing, 
Comes  to  the  ear  with  stories  of  the  Spring, 

And  bids  the  heart  in  her  return  be  blest.        V 

Joy  to  the  Earth ! — for  Spring  with  breeze  and  song, 
Leaflet  and  bud,  comes  jocundly  along, 

While  in  her  breath  the  trees  are  blossoming. 
And  see!  the  greenness  of  the  tender  grass 
Where  her  light  footstep  airily  doth  pass — 

The  clear-voiced  birds,  and  streams,  and  fountains  sing 
A  woven  melody  to  greet  her  coming, 
And  voices  low  and  musical  are  humming 

A  song  of  welcome — and  the  earth  rejoices, 

And  praises  God  with  multitudinous  voices. 


EDITH. 
" 


BOUND  in  the  dreamless  slumber  of  the  tomb — 

Resting  in  quiet  with  the  quiet  dead — 
Faded  from  cheek  and  lip  life's  roseate  bloom — 

From  lovely  clay  the  lovelier  spirit  fled — 
So  hath  she  mingled  with  Death's  numberless  throng, 

With  them  co-tenant  of  the  populous   grave — 
Oh  deep  will  be  her  slumber — deep  and  long, 

While  o'er  her  head  the  tall  rank  grass  shall  wave ! 

And  this  is  Edith's  grave.     Oh  many  a  tear 

Hath  quickened  the  young  grass  that  crowns  its  sod — 
A  stricken  heart  hath  poured  its  anguish  here, 

And  looked  for  comfort  to  the  mourner's  God! 
Tread  lightly,  stranger — for  the  loved,  the  young 

Sleeps,  cold  and  still,  beneath  thee — wake  her  not ! 
Here  have  the  wizard-winds  her  requiem  sung — 

Tread  lightly,  stranger — 'tis  a  hallowed  spot! 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  73 

Brief  was  thy  stay  with  us,  oh,  gentlest  one! 

Beautiful  idol  of  a  widowed  heart — 
Sweet  soother  of  a  mourning  mother — gone 

Swiftly — for  ever  !    Thus  the  loved  depart ! 
Thou  wert  too  beautiful,  too  bright  a  blossom 

For  the  cold  winds  of  earth  to  sere  and  dim, 
And  ere  a  care  had  crossed  thy  guileless  bosom 

Thy  Heavenly  Father  called  thee  home  to  Him ! 

Yet  had  the  friends  around  thee  fondly  deemed 

That  thou  wouldst  bless  them  with  thy  looks  of  love, 
And  with  the  music  of  that  voice,  which  seemed 

The  echo  of  some  seraph-song  above, — 
When  long  and  weary  years  had  passed  away, 

And  cast  a  shadow  on  their  loveliness — 
And  as  they  hastened  onward  to  decay 

Thy  presence  should  be  with  them  still  to  bless. 

How  are  those  ardent  hopes  for  ever  withered ! 

How  hath  departed  that  fond  mother's  trust! 
Her  last,  bright  blossom  to  the  grave  is  gathered, 

And  life's  gay  dreams  lie  shattered  in  the  dust ! 
The  holy  light  that  cheered  her  path  is  faded 

In  the  cold  darkness  that  pervades  the  tomb, 
And  the  bright  wreath  of  joy  her  fancy  braided, 

Is  torn  and  scattered  by  a  cruel  doom  ! 
7* 


74 


Yet,  mother!  think  not  as  thou  bendest  o'er 

The  grave's  dark  brink,  thy  child  is  mouldering  there — 
Her  spirit  resteth  on  a  happier  shore, 

And  floats  her  triumph-song  on  Heaven's  air! 
How  would  thy  heart  leap  when  her  face  was  bright! 

And  now  no  cloud  of  grief  can  dim  her  brow — 
Her  songs  would  thrill  thy  bosom  with  delight, 

Angels  enraptured  listen  to  them  now! 

Joy,  and  not  tears,  for  Edith ! — for  her  lot 
Is  bright  and  blessed!     Early  hath  she  flown 

Where  pain,  or  sin,  or  sorrow  cometh  not — 
The  God  who  loved  her,  claims  her  as  His  own! 

Look  upward,  Mother ! — for  her  home  is  there, 
Amid  the  saved,  the  ransomed,  the  forgiven — 

Look  upward,  mourning  mother!  and  prepare 

To  meet  the  loved  one  of  thy  soul  in  Heaven ! 


H.  A.  B. 

DEEM  not,  Beloved  !  that  the  glow 

Of  love  with  youth  will  know  decay,— 
For  though  the  wing  of  Time  may  throw 

A  shadow  o'er  our  way ; 
The  sunshine  of  a  cloudless  faith, 

The  calmness  of  a  holy  trust, 
Shall  linger  in  our  hearts  till  Death 

Consigns  our  "dust  to  dust!" 

The  fervid  passion  of  our  youth — 

The  fervor  of  Affection's  kiss — 
Love,  born  of  purity  and  truth — 

All  pleasant  memories — 
These  still  are  ours,  while  looking  back 

Upon  the  Past  with  dewy  eyes; 
Oh  dearest!  on  Life's  vanished  track 

How  much  of  sunshine  lies! 


76  W.    H.    BUBLEIGIl's    POEMS. 

Men  call  us  poor — it  may  be  true 

Amid  the  gay  and  glittering  crowd — 
\Ve  feel  it,  though  our  wants  are  few, 

Yet  envy  not  the  proud. 
The  freshness  of  Love's  early  flowers, 

Heart-sheltered  through  long  years  of  want, 
Pure  hopes  and  quiet  joys  are  ours, 

That  wealth  could  never  grant. 

Something  of  beauty  from  thy  brow, 

Something  of  lightness  from  thy  tread, 
Hath  passed — yet  thou  art  dearer  now 

Than  when  our  vows  were  said : 
A  softer  beauty  round  thee  gleams 

Chastened  by  time,  yet  calmly  bright; 
And  from  thine  eye  of  hazel,  beams 

A  deeper,  tenderer  light — 

An  emblem  of  the  love  which  lives 

Through  every  change,  as  time  departs; 
Which  binds  our  souls  in  one,  and  gives 

New  gladness  to  our  hearts ! 
Flinging  a  halo  over  life 

Like  that  which  gilds  the  life  beyond  ! 
Ah !  well  I  know  thy  thoughts,  dear  wife  ! 

To  thoughts  like  these  respond. 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  77 

The  mother,  with  her  dewy  eye, 

Is  dearer  than  the  blushing  bride 
Who  stood,  three  happy  years  gone  by, 

In  beauty  by  my  side! 
OUR  FATHER,  throned  in  light  above, 

Hath  blessed  us  with  a  fairy  child — 
A  bright  link  in  the  chain  of  love — 

The  pure  and  undefiled : 

Rich  in  the  heart's  best  treasure,  still 

With  a  calm  trust  we'll  journey  on, 
Linked  heart  with  heart,  dear  wife !  until 

Life's  pilgrimage  be  done! 
Youth — beauty — passion — these  will  pass 

Like  every  thing  of  earth  away — 
The  breath-stains  on  the  polished  glass 

Less  transient  are  than  they. 

But  love  dies  not — the  child  of  God — 

The  soother  of  Life's  many  woes — 
She  scatters  fragrance  round  the  sod 

Where  buried  hopes  repose  ! 
She  leads  us  with  her  radiant  hand 

Earth's  pleasant  streams  and  pasture  by, 
Still  pointing  to  a  better  land 

Of  bliss  beyond  the  sky  ! 


THE  YOUNG  POETESS. 

SHE  was  a  lovely  creature, — young  and  fair, 

And  light  of  heart,  and  brilliant  was  her  eye — 
For  never  had  the  siroc-breath  of  care 

Swept  o'er  her  spirit.     Ocean,  Earth,  and  Sky 
To  her  clear,  spiritual  vision,  wore  a  robe 

Transparent  as  the  light — and  she  would  gaze 
With  an  enraptured  spirit  o'er  the  globe, 

On  sea,  vale,  mountain — and  in  wonder  raise 
Her  rich-toned,  girlish  voice,  pouring  her  soul  in  praise  ! 

She  was  a  happy  creature — bounding  on 

From  joy  to  joy,  and  feasting  still  her  soul 
Amid  Earth's  beautiful  things,  till  she  had  won, 

Or  seemed  almost'  to  have  won,  the  very  goal 
Of  earthly  bliss.     Familiar  was  her  eye 

With  Nature's  wildest  scenes — for  well  she  loved 
To  watch  the  foaming  cataract,  flinging  high 

Tempests  of  sheeted  foam,  until  the  sky 
Kissed  the  upspringing  waters ! — and  her  soul, 

By  the  high  majesty  of  Nature  moved, 
Panted  to  burst  away  from  Earth's  corrupt  control. 


79 


Her  eye  would  kindle  with  a  strange  delight 

As  its  glad  vision  \vandered  o'er  the  stars ; 
And  she  would  watch  them  in  the  silent  night 

For  ever  "wheeling  on  their  golden  cars" — 
Or  when  the  storm-cloud  o'er  the  sky  was  flung 

Like  a  broad  pall,  its  loveliness  to  veil, 
And  the  wild  Demon  of  the  Storm  had  sang 

His  song  in  thunder  and  the  sweeping  gale, 

With  a  rejoicing  spirit  she  would  hail 
Their  dread  approach,  and  feel  her  soul  expand 
With  awe  beneath  their  presence.     In  the  grand 

And  terrible  war  of  elements,  when  the  cloud 
Burst  in  its  fury  o'er  the  wind-swept  Ocean, 

And  Deep  to  answering  Deep  was  calling  loud, 
With  voice  of  storm-lashed  waters,  the  commotion 

Stirred  the  quick  pulses  of  her  heart,  and  thrilled 
The  chords  of  spirit  with  a  mystic  feeling — 
And  gazing  still,  her  swelling  soul  was  filled 

With  thoughts  too  mighty  for  the  mind's  revealing  ! 

She  loved  the  hush  of  forest-solitudes, 

Where  the  clear  streamlet  ripples  peacefully, 

And  foot  of  Fashion's  votary  ne'er  intrudes — 
For  there,  in  silent  loneliness,  could  she 


80  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

Hold  sweet  communion  with  the  things  around  her — 
The  stream — the  leaflet— or  the  passing  breeze, 
Sweeping  in  freedom  o'er  the  forest-trees — 

And,  as  the  spell  of  Poesy  had  bound  her, 
She  seemed  enchained  to  each  delightful  spot 

Her  footstep  visited — and  she  would  linger 
Hour  after  hour,  around  some  shaded  grot, 

Wreathing  the  wild-flowers  with  her  delicate  finger, 
Unconscious  of  employment — while  her  eye 
Cast  its  inquiring  glances  to  the  sky, 

As  it  would  fain  have  read  the  mysteries  there ; 

Or  from  the  white  folds  of  a  floating  cloud 
Had  caught  a  glimpse  of  some  bright  angel-pinion 

Careering  onward  through  the  fields  of  air, 
Seeking  again  the  beautiful  dominion, 

From  which,  perchance,  it  had  a  moment  bowed  ! 

Let  not  the  mind  engrossed  in  worldly  schemes 

Deem  her's  was  idle — or  that  squandered  all 
Were  the  lone  hours  of  phantasies  and  dreams 

Whose  mystic  visions  held  her  soul  in  thrall — 
For  by  a  long  and  intimate  communion 

With  things  invisible,  the  human  soul 
Almost  forgets  its  temporary  union 

With  that  which  binds  it,  in  a  stern  control, 


81 


To  gross,  material  nature — and  its  vision, 

Expanded,  brightened,  fondly  turns  away 
To  catch  new  glories  from  the  fields  Elysian, 

And  view  new  beauties  in  the  "  Realms  of  Day" — 
And  still  the  heart  grows  better — and  the  hand 

Is  open  to  relieve  the  wants  of  others, 
And  the  mild  eye  beholdeth  in  the  band 

Of  Wo's  despairing  children,  friends  and  brothers  ! 

Twas  even  thus  with  her — for  though  she  loved 

To  muse  in  solitude,  amid  the  wild 
And  dreamy  forests,  yet  she  often  roved 

Through  Sorrow's  lonely  haunts,  to  seek  the  child 
Of  hopeless  Misery,  and  pour  the  balm 

Of  sympathy  upon  the  bleeding  heart ; 
To  comfort  the  despairing,  and  to  calm 

The  wounded  soul  till  it  forgot  its  smart. 

But  what  avails  the  story  of  the  Past  ? 

fcShe  was/"— those  two  brief  words  will  tell  it  all! 
And  such  may  be  our  epitaph  at  last, 

When  we  are  covered  by  the  sable  pall. 
She  lived — she  loved — she  died — and  is  forgot, 

Save  by  a  few  fond  hearts  that  linger  yet 
To  mourn  around  the  consecrated  spot 
Where  slumbers  one  they  cannot  all  forget ! 
8 


MAY. 

THE  Spring-time,  with  its  balmy  breath, 

Is  abroad  upon  the  hills; 
And  the  sunshine  dances  gaily 

To  the  music  of  the  rills ; 
And  timidly  the  violet  lifts 

Its  head  from  the  dewy  grass, 
As  if  to  catch  the  fragrant  gifts 

Of  the  breezes,  as  they  pass. 

Kissed  by  the  spirit  of  the  wind, 

The  buds  are  peeping  out 
With  their  roguish  eyes,  as  if  to  see 

What  Nature  is  about! 
The  peach-tree  and  the  lilac 

Unfold  their  virgin  charms, 
And  look  as  if  they  meant  to  woo 

The  Summer  to  their  arms. 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  83 

The  cunning  birds  are  busy  now, 

For  their  wooing  time  has  come ; 
And  their  little  hearts  flow  out  in  song 

As  they  build  their  summer  home ; 
They  fling  their  notes  on  the  odorous  air, 

And  lighten  their  toil  with  love — 
And  the  watching  maiden  breathes  a  prayer 

For  the  minstrels  of  the  grove. 

'Tis  a  pleasant  thing  to  look  upon 

The  greenness  of  the  Earth, 
When  the  sunshine  melts  the  ice  away 

And  calls  the  flowers  to  birth. 
And  the  change,  I  ween,  to  the  musing  mind, 

A  thought  of  the  day  shall  bring, 
When  the  Winter  of  Death  shall  pass  away 

For  Life's  eternal  Spring! 


STANZAS, 

OJf    SEEING    A    GROUP    OF    GIRLS     KNEELING     IX    SILEJfT 
PRATER. 

LOOK  !  they  are  kneeling — and  each  brow  is  covered 

With  the  white  hands  that  press  them,  while  an  awe 
Rests  on  their  souls,  as  if  above  them  hovered 

The  Holy  Spirit,  visibly,  to  draw 
The  young  affections  of  their  guileless  bosoms, 

The  ardent  hopes  which  burn  within  each  breast, 
From  earthly  treasures  to  those  fadeless  blossoms 

That  wreathe  the  bowers  of  Everlasting  Rest ! 

Still — still — as  if  each  spirit  held  communion 

In  silence  wTith  its  God — or  else  had  flown 
Away  from  Earth  to  seek  a  closer  union 

With  HIM  who  sits  upon  the  dazzling  Throne, 
Before  which  angels  and  archangels,  bending, 

Offer  perpetual  worship  ! — while  abroad, 
Through    Heaven's   bright  regions,  harps  with   voices 
blending 

Pour  loud  Hosannas  to  the   LIVING  GOD  ! 


85 


A  balmy  breeze,  with  fragrance  richly  laden, 

Comes,  as  from  Heaven,  to  greet  those  kneeling  girls  ; 
And,  as  it  softly  passes  by,  each  maiden 

Feels  its  air-fingers  dallying  with  her  curls — 
Yet  heeds  it  not,  unless,  perchance,  her  spirit 

Deems  it  a  whisper  from  that  better  world 
Which  the  pure-hearted  only  shall  inherit 

When  Earth's  last  wrecks  shall  be  in  ruin  hurled  ! 

Are  they  not  beautiful  ?     Nor  voice — nor  motion 

Is  there — and  yet  those  silent  worshippers 
Feel  their  hearts  burning  with  as  pure  devotion 

As  lip  e'er  uttered — and  the  love,  which  stirs 
Each  humble  spirit,  is  a  flame  from  Heaven 

Lit  on  the  altar  of  the  human  heart — 
Oh,  bright  will  be  the  hope  that   shall  be  given 

To  those  who  choose  in  youth  "  the  better  part !" 

Do  they — the  guiltless — guileless — whose  existence 

Has  been  a  summer-morning,  cloudless,  bright, 
Do  they,  while  gazing  in  the  forward  distance 

On  future  scenes  of  joyance  and  delight, 
Feel  they  have  sins  which  need  to  be  forgiven? 

That  in  God's  mercy  only  they  can  trust? 
If  they  need  grace  to  fit  their  souls  for  Heaven, 

Be  my  proud  spirit  humbled  in  the  dust ! 
8* 


A  WORD  TO  THE  SOUTH, 

Written  at  a  time  memorable  for  its  numerous  pro-slavery  meetings, 
at  which  inflammatory  speeches,  from  distinguished  men,  excited  a 
spirit  of  lawless  violence  against  the  Abolitionists,  producing  those 
frequent  and  disgraceful  outrages  which  are  fresh  in  the  recollection 
of  all.  The  lines  were  originally  published  in  the  number  of  the 
"Liberator"  which  appeared  two  or  three  days  after  the  famous 
'•  property  and  standing"  mob  in  Boston  had  dispersed  a  meeting  of 
the  Female  Anti-Slavery  Society,  and  assailed  the  person  of  William 
Lloyd  Garrison  with  such  fury  that  the  city  authorities  could  protect 
him  nowhere  but  within  the  walls  of  a  jail. 

LET  the  storm  come !     Oh,  impotent  and  vain 

The  mad  attempt  to  overwhelm  the  Truth, 

To  quench  its  blaze,  or  drown  its  thunder-tones 

In  the  wild  tumult  of  the  popular  rage! 

Hark!  from  the  North  to  the  extremest  South 

Rolls  a  continuous  voice — "Repent!  repent!" 

And  on  the  conscious  winds  is  borne  afar 

The  impious  response — "  The  lash !  the  stake ! 

Death  to  the  advocate  of  Human  Rights!" 

The  lash !     Why  shrank  not  Dresser  when  the  scourge 

Reeked  in  his  blood  !     The  voice  of  thanks  arose 

To  God  who  had  endued  him  with  the  power 

To  suffer  uncomplainingly.     Go  to ! 


87 


Tortures  and  stripes  were  made  for  servile  souls — 
The  free,  bold  hearts  who  trust  in  Israel's  God, 
Cannot  be  moved  thus  lightly.     Strong  in  HIM 
Whose  wrath  against  Oppression  hotly  burns, 
They  shrink  not  from  the  peril  nor  the  shame 
Which  they  must  meet  who  wake  the  tyrant's  wrath, 
And  dare  to  trample  on  unholy  Power ! 

Let  the  storm  come !     A  cry  for  blood  hath  gone 
Out  on  the  winds  of  heaven !     The  chivalrous  South 
Calls  on  the  North  to  render  up  her  sons — 
To  sacrifice  her  worthiest,  and  appease 
The  holy  wrath  of  those  who  rob  their  God ; 
And  the  pale  North  hath  bowed,  and  kissed  the  foot 
Of  her  imperious  master  ! 

"  Ho ! — the  chain  ! 

Fetter  the  press !  put  out  the  light  of  truth ! 
Hang  the  disseverers  of  our  sacred  bond !" 
Go,  mocker !  chain  the  unfettered  winds,  which  sweep 
Over  your  fervid  plains,  freighted  with  groans 
From  the  down-trodden — make  them  do  your  will, 
Blow  when  you  list,  and  when  you  bid,  forbear! 
Fetter  the  swelling  ocean,  that  its  waves 
Shall  slumber,  hushed  and  tranquil ;  with  a  nod 
Turn  the  sun  backward  from  his  path  of  light ; 


88  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

Quench  the  rejoicing  stars,  and  blot  the  moon 
From  the  fair  page  of  heaven ;  then  turn  and  throw 
Your  manacles  on  mind — and  fetter  speech, 
And  thought,  and  action;  and  with  dreadless  hand 
Hurl  the  Eternal  from  his  throne,  and  seize 
The  sceptre  of  the  Universe  !  and  then, 
When  God  is  God  no  longer,  we  will  fear, 
And,  cringing,  do  your  bidding.     Not  till  then ! 

Let  the  storm  come  f     It  beat  with  fiercer  rage 
When  cried  the  multitude,  with  maniac  shout, 
"LET  HIM  BE  CRUCIFIED!"     Ye  war  with  God  ! 
Impious  and  unbelieving !     HE  hath  bared 
His  right  arm  for  the  battle,  and  hath  thrown 
His  buckler  over  us — and  every  wound, 
And  every  outrage  which  we  suffer  now, 
In  the  hot  conflict  for  the  RIGHT,  shall  be 
Jl  token  and  a  pledge  of  victory  ! 

OCTOBER,  1835. 


TO  A  PLAYING  BOY. 

FROX    THE    GERMAX    OF    SCHILLER. 

CRADLED  upon  thy  mother's  knee, 

And  circled  in  thy  mother's  arms, 
Beautiful  child  !  thine  infant  glee 

Is  broken  by  no  rude  alarms ; 
Nor  grief,  nor  care,  can  reach  thee  there, 

Safe  sheltered  on  that  holy  Isle— 
Thy  brow  may  still  its  brightness  wear— 

Thou  in  the  grave  can'st  look  and  smile. 

Innocent  visitant  of  Earth ! 

Arcadia  is  around  thee  now — 
And  from  thy  joyous  glance  shines  forth, 

And  beams  upon  thy  radiant  brow, 
NATURE,  unchecked — yet  limiteth 

Thy  wanton  strength  which  lacketh  still 
Courage,  and  aim,  and  holy  faith, 

Thy  being's  purpose  to  fulfil. 


90  w.  H.  BTJRLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

Play  on!  play  on!  for  soon  will  come 

Life's  toil,  and  misery,  and  care — 
And  joy,  which  makes  thy  heart  its  home, 

Shall  be  a  transient  dweller  there! 
Time,  stern  and  pitiless,  hurries  by, 

And  nought  are  infant  smiles  to  him; 
For  where  he  looks  with  spectral  eye, 

Life's  pleasant  sunshine  groweth  dim ! 


"  LET  ME  GO." 

[These  lines  were  occasioned  by  the  death  of  an  uncommonly  beautiful 
and  interesting  child— the  only  son  of  a  sister-in-law — who  died  in 
the  fourth  year  of  his  age.  His  last  sickness  was  intensely  pain- 
ful,  and  his  sufferings  were  terrible  beyond  all  description.  During 
a  brief  interval  of  agony,  he  looked  up  mournfully  into  his  mother's 
face,  and,  as  if  wearied  with  the  burden  of  his  young  life,  softly 
said—"  Mother,  do  let  me  go  !"  They  were  the  last  words  he  spoke.] 

"  MOTHER,  do  let  me  go ."' 

The  earnest  gaze 

Of  the  poor  sufferer  for  a  moment  turned 
Upon  his  mourning  mother,  and  his  eye 
Had  a  beseeching  eloquence  in  its  light, 
While  the  low  music  of  his  pleading  voice 
Pierced  to  the  weeper's  heart.     She  bowed  her  head 
Till  his  bright  hair  was  lifted  by  her  breath 
And  whispered,  "  Whither,  dearest  ?"     No  reply 
Came  from  the  dying  boy — yet  still  his  words 
Rung  in  the  mourner's  ear,  and  thrilled  her  heart — 
"Mother,  do  let  me  go!" 


92 


The  damps  of  death 

/Were  gathering  on  the  brow  of  the  beloved, 
And  the  bright  eye  was  fading.     Beautiful 
Even  in  his  paleness  lay  the  dying  boy, 
Gasping  and  quivering  in  the  iron  grasp 
Of  the  Destroyer,  while  a  plaintive  tone 
Came  fitfully  and  faintly  from  his  lips; 
Heavily  on  his  brain  the  burning  hand 
Of  Sickness  rested,  and  the  mother  knew 
Death  lingered  for  his  prey. 

But  yesterday 

He  was  all  life,  and  mirth,  and  happiness, 
His  mother's  idol,  and  his  father's  joy, 
Laughing  and  leaping  in  the  frolic  mood 
Of  happy,  sinless  childhood, — beautiful 
As  an  embodied  dream  of  Paradise — 
His  clear  voice  ringing  on  the  floating  air, 
Like  the  rich  music  of  the  summer  birds — 
And  his  light  footstep,  as  he  bounded  on 
Through  the  wild  paths  around  his  father's  home, 
Scarce  crushing  the  sered  grass  and  withered  leaves 
That  Autumn's  winds  had  scattered  in  his  way. 
Oh,  how  that  mother,  as  she  fondly  gazed 
On  the  wild  pastimes  of  her  fair-haired  boy, 


93 


Felt  her  full  heart  dilate,  and  swell  with  pride 
Which  none  but  mothers  know ! — Oh  how  that  heart 
/  Yearned  with  unutterable  love,  as  he, 
Tired  of  his  play,  came  bounding-  to  her  side, 
To  fling  his  white  arms  round  her  willing  neck, 
And  press  his  soft  lips  in  a  kiss  to  hers  ! 
Memory — away  !  why  linger  on  the  past  1 
Its  blessed  sunlight  brings  no  radiance 
To  scatter  present  gloom.     What  is  he  now  ] 
Death  from  his  laughing  eye  hath  snatched  the  light, 
And  set  his  signet  on  his  baby  brow! 
The  pallid  lip  is  moveless — never  more 
Will  it  in  joy  or  sorrow,  lovingly, 
Murmur — "  Dear  mother !" 

In  a  quiet  spot, 

Where,  in  the  Spring-time,  sweetest  wild-flowers  bloom, 
And  the  glad  birds  pour  out  their  roundelays — 
Just  as  the  sun  was  flinging  his  farewell 
Over  the  joyous  earth,  with  many  tears 
They  bore  him  to  his  rest,  and  lightly  fell 
The  gravel  on  his  coffin. 

The  wild  winds 

Will  sing  his  requiem,  and  the  driving  sleet 
9 


94  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

Cling  to  his  grave-sod — yet  his  dreamless  sleep 
Will  not  be  broken ! 

fWeep — thou  desolate  one! 
:'  Weep — broken-hearted  mother !  for  thy  child 
Sleeps  in  the  grave's  cold  keeping !  Yet,  in  grief, 
Forget  not  Him  who  chasteneth  in  love, 
He  on  the  wounded  heart  will  gently  pour 
The  healing  Gilead  of  his  GRACE  DIVINE — 
Till  in  the  fulness  of  a  grateful  heart 
Chastened,  but  thankful,  thou  shalt  bless  the  day 
Of  thy  bereavement,  and  in  patience  wait 
The  hour  thy  spirit  shall  rejoin  thy  child's, 
In  that  bright  world  where  Sin  and  Death  are  not! 


ARCHY  MOORE. 

"As  I  stood  upon  the  forecastle  and  looked  towards  the  land,  which 
soon  seemed  but  a  little  streak  in  the  horizon,  and  was  fast  sinking 
from  our  sight,  I  seemed  to  feel  a  heavy  weight  drop  off  me.  The 
chains  were  gone.  I  felt  myself  a  freeman  ;  and  as  I  watched  the  fast- 
receding  shore,  my  bosom  heaved  with  a  proud  scorn— a  mingled  feel 
ing  of  safety  and  disdain. 

"'Farewell,  my  country!'— such  were  the  thoughts  that  rose  upon 
my  mind,  and  pressed  to  find  an  utterance  from  my  lips  ;  '  and  such  a 
country!  A  land  boasting  to  be  the  chosen  seat  of  liberty  and  equal 
rights,  yet  holding  such  a  portion  of  her  people  in  hopeless,  helpless, 
miserable  bondage !' 

"  'Farewell  my  country  !  Much  is  the  gratitude  and  thanks  I  owe 
thee!  Land  of  the  tyrant  and  the  slave,  farewell!' 

"  'And  welcome,  welcome,  ye  beunding  billows  and  foaming  surges 
of  the  ocean !  Ye  are  the  emblems  and  the  children  of  liberty— I  hail 
ye  as  my  brothers!— for,  at  last,  I  too  am  free!—  free!— free!'"— Archy 
Moore,  Vol.  II.  p.  146-7. 

FROM  my  heel  I  have  broken  the  chain  ! 

I  have  shivered  the  yoke  from  my  neck ! 
Free  ! — free  ! — as  the  plover  that  rides  on  the  main — 

As  the  waters  that  dash  o'er  our  deck  ! 
In  my  bosom  new  feelings  are  born — 

New  hopes  have  sprung  up  in  my  path — 
And  I  leave  to  my  country  defiance  and  scorn, 

The  curse  of  a  fugitive's  wrath ! 
My  country  7 — away  ! — for  the  gifts  which  she  gave 
Were  the  whip  and  the  fetter — the  life  of  a  slave ! 


Thank  God!  that  a  limit  is  set 

To  the  reach  of  the  tyrant's  control ! 
That  the  down-trodden  serf  may  not  wholly  forget 

The  right  and  the  might  of  his  soul ! 
That  though  years  of  oppression  may  dim 

The  fire  on  the  heart's  altar  laid, 
Yet,  lit  by  the  breath  of  Jehovah,  like  Him 

It  lives,  and  shall  live,  undecayed! 
Will  the  fires  of  the  mountain  grow  feeble  and  die  1 
Beware ! — for  the  tread  of  the  Earthquake  is  nigh ! 

Proud  Land ! — there  is  vengeance  in  store 

For  thy  soul-crushing  despots  and  thee — 
When  Mercy,  grown  faint,  shall  no  longer  implore, 

But  the  day  of  thy  recompense  be — 
When  thy  cup  with  the  mixture  of  wrath 

Shall  be  full — the  Avenger,  in  power, 
Shall  sweep  like  a  tempest  of  fire  o'er  thy  path, 

Consuming  the  tree  and  the  flower — 
And  thy  mountains  shall  echo  the  shriek  of  despair, 
While  the  smoke  of  thy  torment  shall  darken  the  air ! 

Wo !  wo !  to  the  forgers  of  chains, 

Who  trample  the  image  of  God : 
Calls  for  vengeance  the  blood  of  the  bondman,  which  stains 

The  cursed  and  the  verdureless  sod  ! 


Ye  may  tread  on  the  poor — but  not  long ! 

Ye  may  torture  the  weak — while  ye  dare ! 
But  wo  ! — for  the  arm  of  a  People  is  strong1 

When  nerved  by  revenge  and  despair! 
Let  the  fetter  be  tightened  !— the  sooner  'twill  break ! 
Trample  on ! — and  the  serf  shall  more  quickly  awake  ! 

My  country ! — the  land  of  my  birth  ! 

Farewell  to  thy  fetters  and  thee! 
The  by-word  of  tyrants — the  scorn  of  the  earth — 

A  mockery  to  all  shalt  thou  be! 
Hurra !  for  the  sea  and  its  waves ! 

Ye  billows  and  surges — all  hail! 
My  brothers  henceforth — for  ye  scorn  to  be  slaves, 

As  ye  toss  up  your  crests  to  the  gale ! 
Farewell  to  the  land  of  the  "charter  and  chain," — 
My  path  is  away  o'er  the  fetterless  main ! 


JAMES  OTIS  ROCKWELL. 

"Biswas  no  rough  character,  tempered  and  fitted  for  the  toils  of 
life ;  as  well  might  a  flower  bear  up  against  a  whirlwind,  as  he  against 
the  troubles  that  assailed  him." — Obituary  of  J.  O.  Rockwell. 

HE  was  the  Child  of  Genius — and  his  soul 
Burned  with  the  living  fire  of  Poesy  ! 
Earth,  with  its  multitude  of  vales  and  hills — 
Mountains  whose  heads  are  turban'd  in  the  clouds, 
And  valleys  deep  where  scarcely  peers  the  glance 
Of  the  meridian  sun — the  infinite  Sea, 
Cradling  its  beautiful  isles,  and  with  its  waves 
Chanting  a  solemn  lullaby — the  Sky 
Gorgeously  gemm'd  with  sabaoth  of  stars, 
Or  curtained  with  the  voiceful  thunder- cloud — 
Yea,  Earth — Sea — Sky — were  ever  unto  him 
As  a  familiar  volume,  where  he  read 
Marvellous  legends  of  the  olden  time, 
And  conned  mysterious  truths,  which  he  transcribed 
On  the  fair  tablets  of  his  wondering  soul. 
What  time  he  wandered  forth  alone — the  stars 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  99 

Burning  above  him,  and  the  quiet  earth 

Like  a  hushed  infant  slumbering — he  loved 

To  list  to  Nature's  ever-varying  voice, 

And  let  the  influence  of  the  stilly  hour, 

Like  a  wierd  presence,  steal  upon  his  soul, 

Hushing  each  turbulent  thought,  and  chast'ning  all 

His  aspirations,  till  he  felt  himself 

Lifted  from  earth,  and  sense,  and  sin,  and  lost 

In  the  dim  shadows  of  the  dread  TO  BE  ! 

He  lived  not  in  the  Present — but  his  mind 
Framed  a  new  world,  and  fairer  far  than  this — 
A  world  of  Phantasie,  where  fruits  and  flowers 
Were  ever  fresh  and  fadeless,  men  were  brave, 
And  women  true,  and  poets  idolized — 
And  in  the  dim  realm  of  creative  Thought, 
He  could  forget  awhile  the  selfishness, 
And  fraud,  and  violence,  and  wo  of  earth. 
Poesy  claimed  him  for  her  own,  and  breathed 
Into  his  soul  her  spirit,  and  bestowed 
An  intuition  of  the  Beautiful ! 
His  heart  was  tuned  to  music,  and  his  ear 
Quick  to  detect  the  latent  melody 
That  slumbers  in  the  harp  of  ^Eolus, 
What  time  the  breezes  murmur  not,  nor  wake, 
Save  fitfully  and  faintly. 


100 


Months  and  years 

Passed  o'er  the  youthful  dreamer,  stealthily, 
^Almost  unheeded — for  the  world  of  thought 
In  which  his  spirit  reveled,  still  was  bright ! 
And  Hope,  with  magic  wand,  before  his  eyes 
Etched  beautiful  pictures  of  the  coming  time, 
And  still  the  cheating  syren  gaily  poured 
Her  most  bewitching  songs  upon  his  ear, 
And  whispered  flattering  and  delusive  tales, 
Of  future  greatness.     Fame,  too,  diadem'd 
And  radiant  with  beauty,  such  as  Mind 
Throws  round  her  own  creations,  standing  high 
On  a  proud  pinnacle — around  her  brow 
A  gorgeous  chaplet  of  undying  flowers, 
And  in  her  hand  a  sceptre — smilingly 
Looked  on  the  young  enthusiast,  beck'ning  him 
Onward  and  upward  ever !     Thus  he  lived 
In,  and  yet  scarcely  seeming  of,  the  world — 
Peopling  the  Universe  with  glorious  forms — 
Thoughts,  feelings,  passions,  exultations,  hopes, 
Desires,  and  eestacies,  creations  all 
Of  his  own  mind,  yet  wondrous  beautiful ! — 
Holding  companionship  with  vales  and  brooks, 
Mountains  and  forests,  sky,  and  clouds,  and  stars, 
Sunlight  and  tempest,  lightning,  hail,  and  snow, 


101 


And  wresting  from  them  all  a  dialect 
Known  unto  him  alone,  that  ever  came 
With  a  peculiar  eloquence  to  his  soul ; 
He  had  no  time  to  con  the  blotted  page 
Of  human  life — the  record  of  its  woes — 
The  history  of  its  treacheries  and  tears — 
And  therefore  was  he  happy. 

But  a  cloud 

Came  o'er  the  blue  sky  of  the  dreamer's  life, 
And  the  glad  sun  was  shadowed.     He  went  forth 
Undisciplined — unpanoplied — alone — 
From  the  sweet  home  of  infancy,  to  mix 
In  the  wild  tumults  of  the  world,  and  meet 
The  foes  that  should  beset  him — Envy — Hate — 
Falsehood  and  Treachery — Distrust  and  Care. 
The  stars  of  life  went  out,  and  Darkness  flung 
Her  thick  pall  o'er  his  spirit — and  his  brow 
Lost  its  serene  expression — and  his  eye 
Grew  cold  and  dim — his  gorgeous  dreams  of  Fame 
Vanished,  like  frost-work  from  the  sun's  warm  kiss — 
And  the  fresh  hopes  that  buoyed  his  spirit  up 
In  earlier  days,  were  withered  now  and  crushed  ! 
The  delicate  harp  was  shattered  !  and  its  strings 
Wailed  fitfully  and  wildly  in  the  breeze — 
Pouring  their  mournful  music  over  earth, 


102  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

Like  the  low  dirge  above  the  early  bier 
Of  the  beloved  and  perished. 

Brief  the  time 

Of  the  young  poet's  struggle.     Earth  became 
Even  as  a  peopled  sepulchre  to  him ; 
Joyless  as  death,  and  cheerless  as  the  grave  I 
Then  Madness  came,  and  laid  her  burning  hand 
Upon  his  brain — he  shuddered  at  the  touch, 
Struggled  a  moment  with  the  pitiless  fiend, 
Convulsively— and  died. 

Kinder  than  man, 

Earth  welcomed  home  her  own — "ashes  to  ashes 
And  dust  to  dust" — a  few  hot  tears  were  shed — 
The  praise  denied  in  life,  over  his  corse 
Was  freely  poured — but,  oh !  too  late — and  then 
One  of  Earth's  loveliest  and  most  gifted  ones 
Was  left  to  the  oblivion  of  the  grave ! 

Who  piled  his  monument  1 — who  sang  his  dirge  ? 
Where  lingers  his  remembrance1? — who  can  tell 
His  struggles  and  his  triumphs  1     Hath  not  Earth 
A  single  harp  to  chant  his  requiem  ? 
A  single  hand  to  pile  his  monument  ? 
None  ! — none !     Oh,  what  a  mockery  is  fame  ! 
The  bard  hath  perished — and  the  world  forgot! 


BIRTH-DAY  SONG. 


KATRINAH!  feel  you  not  with  me 

Oar  years  are  hurrying  on, 
And  that  the  sparkle  of  life's  cup 

For  evermore  is  gone  ? 
Already  hath  the  share  of  Time 

Marked  deeply  on  my  brow 
The  furrow  that  too  plainly  tells 

That  youth  is  over  now. 
My  locks,  which  once  were  darkly  brown, 

Grow  grisly  now  and  thin; 
Old  Age  comes  stealthily  along — 

The  thievish  mannikin  ! — 
And  in  my  face  he  shakes  his  paw 

As  he  is  gliding  by, 
And  snatches  with  his  felon-hand 

The  lustre  from  my  eye  ! 


104 


The  honey-moon  of  life  is  past — 

Our  days  of  fun  are  over— 
We  may  not  tread  the  dance  again, 

The  loved  one  and  the  lover! 
So,  soberly  and  quietly 

We'll  sit  and  count  the  hours, 
Nor  deem  that  we  are  roving  still 

Amid  life's  early  flowers. 
We  plucked  the  blossoms  long  ago, 

And  scattered  to  the  wind 
Their  shattered  leaves  all  recklessly, 

Nor  left  a  bud  behind  ! 
Well — let  them  go!  if  we  have  walked 

O'er  green  and  flowery  lawns, 
Oh,  let  us  murmur  not,  though  now 

Our  path  is  thick  with  thorns! 

How  brimming  was  the  revel-cup 

\Ve  lifted  to  our  lip 
In  early  time — but,  oh!  how  brief 

Our  spirits'  fellowship 
With  sunny  hours,  and  bursting  flowers, 

And  Eden-colored  things! 
How  quickly  came  the  dimness  o'er 

Our  bright  imaginings! 


105 


The  sunlight  hath  departed, 

And  the  tempest  broodeth  now 
Above  oar  path  !     /  fear  it  not — 

Katrinah  !  fearest  thou  ? 
Nay,  let  it  burst ! — for  we  have  lived 

Till  Life's  delights  are  gone — 
And  what  on  earth  should  tempt  us  now 

To  live  and  linger  on? 


10 


GONE— NOT  LOST. 

"  Not  to  the  grave— not  to  the  grave,  my  soul, 

Follow  thy  friend  beloved— 

The  spirit  is  not  there  I" — Southcy. 

A  MERRY  voice  which  rang  of  erst 

Amid  the  pleasant  scenes  of  home, 
More  joyous  than  the  music-burst 

That  to  the  dreamer's  ear  doth  come — 
A  happy  voice,  whose  every  tone 

Was  fraught  with  gladness,  pure  and  deep, 
Hath  passed  from  earth — its  echo  gone — 

And  they  who  loved  are  left  to  weep. 

A  sparkling  eye,  which  seemed  while  here 
A  ray  of  light  from  realms  above, — 

Within  whose  depths  so  bright  and  clear 
Were  nestled  Purity  and  Love — 

A  pleasant  eye,  which  shone  on  all 

With  kindliest  glance,  dispelling  gloom, 

The  brightest  at  the  festival- 
Is  rayless  now  within  the  tomb. 


W.    H.    BURLEIGU'S    POEMS.  107 

A  lovely  form — its  every  limb 

Proportioned  with  exactest  grace — 
No  longer  by  the  side  of  him, 

The  loved  and  lover,  is  its  place  : 
A  perfect  form — alas  for  mirth ! 

Joy  is  no  more  our  spirits'  guest — 
Upon  the  gelid  lap  of  Earth 

The  Beautiful  is  laid  to  rest! 

The  Spirit ! — where  is  that  which  flung 

Its  witchery  over  face  and  form? 
Which  gave  its  music  to  the  tongue  1 

The  eye  its  captivating  charm  1 
Which  breathed  in  word,  and  shone  in  glance, 

And  threw  a  glory  over  all  ? 
Sought  it  a  high  inheritance  1 

Or  slumbers  it  beneath  the  pall? 

Turn  from  the  grave!  a  thing  so  pure 

Is  safe  from  every  shaft  of  Death, 
And  shall  through  endless  years  endure — 

A  portion  of  JEHOVAH'S  breath ! 
Turn  from  the  grave!   the  all  we  loved 

Lives  yet  in  worlds  beyond  our  ken; 
And  who  will  mourn  it,  thus  removed 

From  all  the  toils  and  woes  of  men? 


108  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

Oar  time  will  come — till  then  we'll  tread 

In  hope  the  path  that  she  hath  trod, 
For  HE  whose  word  is  truth,  hath  said 

"  The  pure  in  heart  are  blessed  of  God!'1'1 
And  she  was  pure — for  even  on  earth 

Her  spirit  caught  no  dimming  stain — 
Oh,  let  us  emulate  her  worth, 

And  surely  shall  we  meet  again! 


THE  SONG  OF  CAPTIVITY. 

PSALM    CXXXVII. 

Lo!  we  sat,  a  mournful  band, 
Exiled  from  our  Zion  long, 

Captives  in  a  stranger  land, 
And  the  foes  of  God  among; 

Where  the  waters  darkly  swept, 

Mournfully  we  sat  and  wept — 

Wept  for  Zion's  overthrow — 

For  her  holy  places  waste, 
Trampled  by  the  ruthless  foe, 

And  her  glory  all  effaced ; 
While  the  willow  boughs  among 
Were  our  harps  in  silence  hung. 

For  the  spoiler  asked  for  mirth: 
"  Give  us  one  of  Zion's  songs !" 

From  the  country  of  our  birth 
Exiled,  can  we  tune  our  tongues? 

Homeless,  in  the  stranger's  home 

Harp  and  voice  alike  are  dumb. 
10* 


no 


Salem !  if  amid  thy  foes 

I  should  cease  to  think  of  thee, 
And,  forgetful  of  thy  woes, 

Thou  no  more  my  joy  should  be, 
Let  my  hand  forget  her  skill, 
And  my  tongue  in  death  be  still. 

But  a  day  of  vengeance  comes — 
Who  its  fury  shall  withstand  1 

To  the  spoilers  of  our  homes — 
To  the  tramplers  of  our  land ! 

Edom !  swift  upon  thy  path 

Sweep  the  ministers  of  wrath ! 

Lo !  Destruction  waiteth  now, 
Haughty  Babylon!  for  thee; 

And  amid  thine  overthrow, 
Sorceress  !  happy  shall  he  be 

Who  shall  take  thy  little  ones, 

Dashinsr  them  against  the  stones! 


ELIJAH  PARRISH  LOVEJOY. 

MURDERED    AT    ALTOX,    ILLINOIS,    NOVEMBER    7,    1837. 

HERE  rests,  oh  God !  thy  martyr !     Men  should  give 
Due  honor  to  his  ashes,  as  they  tread 
Over  the  grave  of  one  whose  actions  shed 

Lustre  undying,  fame  not  fugitive, 

On  the  proud  name  his  children  bear.     He  died, 

Not  as  the  traitor,  whose  base  spirit  yields, 
For  ease  or  safety,  rights  that  God  hath  given, — 
Not  as  the  craven,  who,  for  Truth  and  Heaven, 

With  doubtful  heart,  the  keen-edged  weapon  wields, 
And  from  the  field  ingloriously  is  driven, — 

By  courage  high  his  death  was  sanctified, 

His  deeds,  by  faith  and  prayer — and  none  hath  striven 

More  nobly  in  a  noble  cause — therefore 

Honor  be  his,  and  praise  for  evermore. 


REFORM  CONVENTION.' 


[Stanzas  written  on  reading  the  yeas  and  nays,  in  the  Convention  for 
reforming  the  Constitution  of  Pennsylvania,  upon  the  adoption  of 
Martin's  amendment,  depriving  the  colored  citizens  of  their  political 
rights.] 


IT  is  done! — and  the  record  is  traced 

Henceforth  to  be  linked  with  your  fame — 
It  shall  stand  on  the  page  of  your  life,  uneffaced, 

A  witness  for  aye  of  your  shame ! 
To  years  and  to  ages  unborn, 

Throughout  every  kindred  and  clime, 
Ye  shall  be  as  a  by-word,  a  hissing  and  scorn, 

To  the  pure  and  the  good  of  all  time ! 
The  curse  of  the  slave  and  the  taunt  of  the  free 
Henceforth  and  for  ever  your  portion  shall  be ! 

O'er  the  graves  of  those  true-hearted  men 
Who  scoffed  at  the  crown  and  the  chain, — 

In  the  land  hallowed  still  by  the  spirit  of  PENN, 
Whose  precepts  ye  dare  to  profane — 


W.    II.    BURLEIGH  S    POEMS.  113 

Ye  have  trampled  the  weak  in  your  might! 

Ye  have  torn  from  the  hands  of  the  poor 
The  charter  of  manhood — the  blood-purchased  right 

Which  your  fathers  were  fain  to  secure. 
Base  forgers  of  fetters !  how  well  have  ye  won 
The  hate  of  a  world  by  the  deeds  ye  have  done  ! 

In  the  days  of  our  darkness  and  wo, 

When  the  tyrant  was  here  in  his  pride, 
And  trembled  the  land  'neath  the  tread  of  the  foe, 

They  fought  by  their  white  brothers'  side — 
The  scorned  and  the  outcast — they  poured 

Their  blood  in  the  terrible  fray — 
On  the  red  field  of  battle  they  won,  by  the  sword, 

The  rights  ye  have  wrested  away : 
In  the  hour  of  our  peril  they  breasted  the  storm, 
And  stood  up  for  Freedom,  unshaken  and  firm  ! 

And  this  is  the  meed  of  their  toil ! 

And  this  their  exceeding  reward ! 
To  be  in  the  land  which  they  fought  for,  a  spoil — 

A  people  oppressed  and  abhorred! 
In  vain  to  the  Rulers  they  cry — 

The  proud  listen  not  to  their  moan; 
And  the  hypocrite-priest,  as  of  old,  passes  by, 

And  leaves  them  to  perish  alone ! 


114  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

Yet  shout!  for  our  land  is  the  home  of  the  free — 
No  people  on  earth  are  so  gallant  as  we ! 

Be  the  names  of  thy  time-honored  dead, 

Pennsylvania  !  remembered  no  more  ! 
Let  the  wreath  of  thy  glory  be  torn  from  thy  head, 

For  the  day  of  thy  splendor  is  o'er — 
And  thy  Sun,  in  an  evil  eclipse, 

Dimly  shines  on  thy  patriot-graves, 
While  Liberty's  name  is  profaned  by  the  lips 

Of  tyrants — the  basest  of  slaves ! 
These — these  be  thy  Gods!  lay  thy  lip  in  the  dust — 
For  the  robber  now  sits  in  the  seat  of  thy  Just ! 

How  thy  true-hearted  children  will  blush, 

Who  exultingly  spoke  of  thee  once, 
Proud  land  of  a  Franklin,  a  Morris,  a  Rush  ! 

When  they  hear  of  thy  recreant  sons ! 
Let  thy  banner  be  torn  into  shreds! 

Let  the  flag  of  the  pirate  unfurl — 
An  emblem  of  outrage — to  float  o'er  the  heads 

Of  a  Martin,  a  Cummin,  and  Cur II ! 
Be  the  voice  of  the  PAST,  with  its  memories  dumb, 
While  hosannas  are  sung  to  a  Foulkrod  and  Crum! 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  115 

But  shall  this  be  the  end  1   shall  the  star 

Of  thy  glory  for  ever  be  hid  ? 
And  thy  children  be  fettered  to  Tyranny's  car, 

To  do  as  the  despot  may  bid"? 
No!  never! — "the  free  soul  of  PENN" 

Lingers  yet  o'er  the  land  of  his  love — 
And  thy  Friends  to  the  rescue,  from  hill-top  and  glen, 

In  the  strength  of  their  purpose  shall  move! 
Thy  FORWARD  and  EARLE  have  not  spoken  in  vain, 
For  the  sun  of  thy  splendor  shall  beam  forth  again ! 

Then,  tyrants !  look  well  to  your  path ! 

A  cloud  shall  come  over  your  fame — 
And  the  terrible  storm  of  a  free  People's  wrath, 

Overwhelm  you  with  anguish  and  shame ! 
To  years  and  to  ages  unborn, 

Throughout  every  kindred  and  clime, 
Ye  shall  be  as  a  by-word,  a  hissing  and  scorn, 

To  the  pure  and  the  good  of  all  time ! 
The  curse  of  the  slave  and  the  taunt  of  the  free 
Henceforth  and  for  ever  your  portion  shall  be ! 


VESPER  HYMN. 

SHADES  of  Evening!  ye  have  cast 
To  the  earth  your  woven  pall, 

And  the  night  is  coming  fast 
Over  wood  and  waterfall. 

Dimmer  grows  the  dying  light, 
Though  its  beauty  lingers  yet — 

Look! — upon  the  brow  of  Night, 
Like  a  gem  is  Venus  set! 

Softly  in  the  shadowy  pines 
Floats  a  spirit-winged  breeze, 

And  the  star-light  dimly  shines 
On  the  tall  and  ancient  trees : 

Tones  of  music  linger  there, 
Lifted  on  the  willing  wind — 

Holy  as  the  whispered  prayer 
From  the  soul  that  never  sinned 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEUS.  117 

Bounteous  Benefactor!  thou 

Hast  preserved  us  through  the  day;. 

Humbly  would  we  thank  thee  now, 
As  we  kneel  to  praise  and  pray  : 

While  the  day  of  life  shall  last, 

Guide  us,  wheresoe'er  we  roam — 
When  the  night  of  Death  is  past, 

Take  us  to  thy  heavenly  home  ! 


11 


SONNET  TO  THE  NORTH  STAR. 

Methinks  thou  lookest  with  a  kindlier  eye 
Than  do  thy  radiant  sisters,  on  the  path 
Of  the  tired  fugitive,  who  flies  the  wrath 
Of  the  oppressor,  while  serene  on  high 
Thou  smilest  in  thy  beauty.     Blessed  Star! 
Thou  lone  "  incendiary"  of  the  Northern  sky  ! 
Unquenchable  beacon-fire  of  Liberty ! 
Shining  in  love,  from  thy  blue  home  afar — 
To  thee,  in  hope,  the  toil-worn  bondman  turns, 

Through  the  long  night,  his  sleepless  eye,  and  presses 
Pantingly  on  through  tangled  wildernesses 
To  Freedom's  land,  for  which  his  spirit  yearns ! 
Shine  on,  thou  bright  "  fanatic !"  for  the  arm 
Of  hangmen  "  patriarchs"  cannot  do  thee  harm ! 


JUNE. 

JUNE,  with  its  roses — June ! 
The  gladdest  month  of  our  capricious  year, 
With  its  thick  foliage  and  its  sunlight  clear; 

And  with  the  drowsy  tune 
Of  the  bright  leaping  waters,  as  they  pass 
Laughingly  on  amid  the  springing  grass  ! 

Earth,  at  her  joyous  coming, 
Smiles  as  she  puts  her  gayest  mantle  on ; 
And  Nature  greets  her  with  a  benison; 

While  myriad  voices,  humming 
Their  welcome  song,  breathe  dreamy  music  round, 
Till  seems  the  air  an  element  of  sound. 

The  overarching  sky 
Weareth  a  softer  tint,  a  lovelier  blue, 
As  if  the  light  of  heaven  were  melting  through 

Its  sapphire  home  on  high ; 
Hiding  the  sunshine  in  their  vapory  breast, 
The  clouds  float  on  like  spirits  to  their  rest. 


120 


A  deeper  melody, 

Poured  by  the  birds,  as  o'er  their  callow  young 
Watchful  they  hover,  to  the  breeze  is  flung — 

Gladsome,  yet  not  of  glee — 
Music  heart-born,  like  that  which  mothers  sing 
Above  their  cradled  infants  slumbering. 

On  the  warm  hill  side,  where 
The  sunlight  lingers  latest,  through  the  grass 
Peepeth  the  luscious  strawberry !     As  they  pass, 

Young  children  gambol  there, 
Crushing  the  gathered  fruit  in  playful  mood, 
And  staining  their  bright  faces  with  its  blood. 

A  deeper  blush  is  given 
To  the  half-ripened  cherry,  as  the  sun 
Day  after  day  pours  warmth  the  trees  upon, 

Till  the  rich  pulp  is  riven; 
The  truant  school-boy  looks  with  longing  eyes, 
And  perils  limb  and  neck  to  win  the  prize. 

The  farmer,  in  his  field, 

Draws  the  rich  mould  around  the  tender  maize; 
While  Hope,  bright-pinioned,  points  to  coming  days, 

When  all  his  toil  shall  yield 
An  ample  harvest,  and  around  his  hearth 
There  shall  be  laughing  eyes  and  tones  of  mirth. 


121 


Poised  on  his  rainbow  wing, 
The  butterfly,  whoie  Hfe  is  but  an  hour, 
Hovers  coquettishly  from  flower  to  flower, 

A  gay  and  happy  thing  ; 
Born  for  the  sunshine  and  the  summer  day, 
Soon  passing,  like  the  beautiful,  away ! 

These  are  thy  pictures,  June! 

Brighest  of  Summer  months — thou  month  of  flowers 
First-born  of  Beauty,  whose  swift-footed  hours 

Dance  to  the  merry  tune 
Of  birds,  and  waters,  and  the  pleasant  shout 
Of  Childhood  on  the  sunny  hills  peal'd  out. 

I  feel  it  were  not  wrong 
To  deem  thou  art  a  type  of  Heaven's  clime, 
Only  that  there  the  clouds  and  storms  of  Time 

Sweep  not  the  sky  along; 
The  flowers — air — beauty — music — all  are  thine, 
But  brighter — purer — lovelier — more  divine! 


11* 


TO  MY  QUAKER  COUSIN. 


"  Don't  tell  me  of  the  feelings,  the  fine  sensibilities,  the  hope  and  joy, 
and  the  true  poetry  of  man's  life  being  blunted  by  the  increase  of  years ! 
Why,  I'll  hate  old  age,  if  it  is  true!  Make  this,  if  thee  pleases,  no 
longer  an  apology  for  the  laziness  thee  is  guilty  of  when  thee  ceases  to 
give  us  and  every  body  the  '  scintillations  of  thy  poetical  genius.'  It 
is  not  that  thy  '  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf,'  but  that  they  are  days  of 
downright— laziness  !"— Extract  from  her  letter. 


YES,  thou  art  righl,  sweet  coz !  I  own 

I  arn  a  lazy  rhymer — very, — 
And  seldom  gives  my  harp  a  tone 

Of  willing  music,  sad  or  merry ; 
Its  strings  are  snapped,  or  out  of  tune, 

And  I  myself  am  out  of  fashion, 
For  wailing  ditties  to  the  moon 

Was  never  my  peculiar  passion. 

I  never  wet  my  thirsty  lip 

At  Helicon's  inspiring  fountain, 

Nor  even  in  fancy  took  a  trip 
To  meet  the  Muses  on  their  mountain. 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  123 

The  voice  of  Fame  is  sweet  enough, 
Doubtless,  for  devotees  who  love  her, 

But  then  her  hill  is  quite  too  rough 
And  steep  for  me  to  clamber  over. 

Lazy  and  uninspired,  can  I 

Write  for  thee  canzonet  or  sonnet? 
Or,  smitten  by  thy  beauty,  try 

To  perpetrate  a  song  upon  itl 
No — though  thy  charms  of  face  and  form 

Would  madden,  like  a  heavenly  vision, 
When  wine  and  love  had  rendered  warm 

Some  dreamer  of  the  fields  Elysian ! 

No — though  the  wicked  world  should  swear 

Thou  art  the  latest  importation 
From  that  bright  realm  where  seraphs  are 

Bending  for  aye  in  adoration ! 
For  beauty  is  at  discount  now 

With  the  dull  muse  that  weaves  my  numbers, 
Nor  laughing  eye,  nor  polished  brow, 

Gleams  on  her  in  her  dreamless  slumbers. 

But,  for  the  brightness  of  thy  youth, 
And  for  the  chastened  love  I  bear  thee, 

And  for  thy  gentleness  and  truth, 
Which  even  thievish  Time  must  spare  thee, 


124  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

And  for  thy  heart  which  overflows 

With  kindness  for  the  wronged  and  lowly, 

And  for  thy  guileless  soul  which  glows 
With  tenderest  feelings,  pure  and  holy — 

And  for  that  fervent  zeal  for  Right 

Which  burneth  in  thy  bosom  ever, 
And  for  that  steadfast  faith  whose  might 

In  peril's  hour  shall  fail  thee  never — 
For  human  sympathies,  which  bring 

True  hearts  around  thee  to  adore  thee— 
For  these,  dear  coz !  I  kneel  and  fling 

The  tribute  of  my  song  before  thee. 

Others  may  sonnetize  the  spell 

That  lives  within  thy  radiant  glances, 
And  lying  bardlings  boldly  tell 

That  loveliness  around  thee  dances ; 
Vows  may  be  offered  thee  in  rhyme, 

And  worship  paid  in  common  metre ; 
But  these  will  pass  with  passing  time, 

For  beauty  than  the  wind  is  fleeter. 

Be  mine  the  better  task  to  find 
For  thee  a  tribute  undegrading: 

Flowers  from  the  garden  of  the  mind, 
Fragrant  and  pure,  and  never  fading — 


W.    H.    BURLEIGIl's    POEMS.  125 

Gems  from  the  mines  of  knowledge  won, 

Brighter  than  fancy  ever  painted — 
An  offering  to  lay  upon 

The  altar  of  a  heart  untainted. 

So,  when  the  hand  of  Time  hath  reft 

From  face  and  form  thy  youthful  graces, 
A  tenderer  beauty  shall  be  left 

To  sanctify  their  fading  traces; 
A  chastened  radiance,  born  of  Thought, 

Around  thy  path  shall  then  be  shining, 
With  more  than  earthly  brightness  fraught, 

To  gild  and  bless  thy  life's  declining ! 


THE  WIDOW'S  OFFERING, 

"  She  of  her  penury  hath  cast  in  all  the  living  that  she  had." 

OH,  strong  in  faith !  thus  cheerfully  to  fling 
With  unreluctant  hand,  thine  earthly  all 
Upon  God's  altar!     Did  no  fear  appal, 

No  dread  arise  of  future  suffering, 

Of  anguish  such  as  poverty  may  bring 
To  the  worn  frame,  o'ertasked"?     No — for  between 
Thy  faith  and  God  no  cloud  did  intervene. 

Thou  could'st  not  doubt  the  fulness  of  that  Spring 

Whence  flowed  thy  sure  supply  !     Thrice  happy  thou, 
On  whose  unquestioning  faith  the  Savior's  eye 
Looked  and  approved  !     Thy  record  is  on  high — 

And,  taught  by  thee,  my  doubting  soul  shall  bow, 
And  own  with  shame  its  former  fears  unjust, 
Clinging  henceforth  to  God  in  perfect  trust. 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  SOLILOQUY. 

[THE    MIDDLE  OF  DECEMBER THERMOMETER  AT    ZERO.] 

THIS  feels  like  winter !     Ugh !  how  bitterly 

Cometh  the  keen  northwester !     In  the  west 

Dark  clouds  are  piled  in  gloomy  masses  up, 

And  from  their  folds  comes  freezingly  the  breath 

Of  the  Storm-Spirit,  couched  and  shrouded  there. 

But  yestermorn  the  streams  were  murmuring 

With  their  low,  silvery  voices,  pouring  forth 

Their  own  peculiar  music  on  the  air, 

And  glancing  in  the  sunshine  radiantly. 

Now  their  clear  tones  are  hushed — for  the  Frost-King 

Hath  thrown  his  fetter  on  them,  and  evoked 

The  voice  of  melody  that  dwelt  with  them 

In  the  bright  summer  hours,  and  they  are  staid 

In  their  free  current,  frozen,  murmurless. 

Where  stays  the  sunshine  ?    Hath  it  learned  that  Earth 
Is  chilled  through  all  her  veins,  and  for  some  grudge 
That  seemed  forgotten  long  ago,  resolved 


128 


To  let  it  freeze  for  ever?     Or,  perchance, 
The  sun  himself  is  frozen.     If  that  cloud 
That  hangs  so  like  a  pall  along  the  sky, 
Would  move  his  body  corporate,  and  begone 
Back  to  his  ocean-mansion,  we  might  learn 
Whether  the  sun  be  dead  or  slumbering. 

Ho !  bring  my  cloak,  Katurah !     Heap  the  wood 
On  the  hot  hearth — draw  up  the  high-backed  screen 
Let  the  winds  whistle  now,  if  so  they  will — 
I  care  but  little  for  their  minstrelsy, 
So  I  can  shut  from  me  their  freezing  breath. 
Well — I  am  warm  and  quiet ;  but,  i'faith, 
I  pity  the  poor  wight  that's  forced  to  face 
Old  Boreas  to-day.     Necessity 
Alone  .will  call  forth  travelers,  and — ugh  !  ugh  ! 
This  cough — ugh!  ugh! — will  kill  me  presently 
An  I  am  not  more  careful.     Oh,  the  seams 
Around  the  doors  and  windows  are  unclosed. 
List ! — List ! — a  roll  of  list !     I  will  not  freeze 
In  my  own  domicil.     Heap  on  the  wood, 
And  throw  another  mantle  round  me — there ! 

Hark!  as  I  live,  I  hear  the  ringing  sound 
Of  the  light  skaters  on  the  frozen  lake — 
And  see !  how  merrily  they  wheel  away 


129 


In  swift  gyrations  o'er  the  glassy  ice, 
As  if  a  power  were  given  them  to  fly  ! 
The  happy  dogs ! — Heaven  grant  they  may  not  freeze. 
I  thought  no  boy  would  venture  out  to-day 
For  sport  or  labor,  an  he  were  not  flogged 
For  tarrying  within.     Well,  after  all, 
It  may  not  be  so  very  cold  for  them — 
And  I  remember  me  when  I  was  young, 
How  little  cared  I  for  the  biting  frost, 
So  I  might  whirl  upon  the  ringing  steel 
Merrily  on,  surrounded  by  a  group 
As  happy  as  myself,  all  life  and  joy  ! 
But  s'death !  a  few  short  years  will  make  a  change 
In  a  man's  sensitiveness,  'specially 
When  they  bring  with  them  gout  and  rheumatism, 
Toothachs  and  agues,  fevers  and  catarrhs — 
And  worse,  far  worse  than  aught,  ay,  than  all  else, 
Dread  hypochondria!     They  will  find  it  so — 
Those  merry  boys  now  skating  on  the  lake — 
If  they,  like  me,  indulge  in  turtle-soup, 
Sauces,  and  pies,  and  cakes,  and  the  whole  round 
Of  eatables  and  drinkables  which  load 
Their  glutton-feeding  table,  who,  like  me, 
Are  cursed  with  wealth  that  brings  but  pain  and  care. 
12 


130  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

Would  I  were  still  a  merry,  pennyless  boy, 
As  light  of  foot  and  heart  as  I  was  once — 
Free  from  dispepsy — free  from  every  pain 
Money  has  purchased  for  me ! — then  would  I 
Bind  the  bright  skate  upon  my  agile  heel, 
And  skim— ugh !  ugh! — I've  added  to  my  cold. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OUTLAW. 

"  His  untimely  tomb 

No  human  hands  with  pious  reverence  reared, 
But  the  charmed  eddies  of  the  autumnal  winds 
Built  o'er  his  mouldering  bones  a  pyramid 
Of  mouldering  leaves  in  the  waste  wilderness."— Shelley. 

A  NIGHT  of  storm  and  darkness!     The  strong  wind 

Shrieked  like  a  tortured  spirit,  as  it  swept 

Through  the  gnarled  branches  of  the  splintered  oaks — 

Then  died  away  in  faint  and  fitful  gusts, 

Wailing  its  strength  departed.     The  big  rain 

Dashed  to  the  earth  in  torrents,  for  the  clouds, 

Aweary  of  their  burdens,  opened  wide 

Their  vapory  cisterns,  and  sent  down  their  floods, 

Deluging  earth ;  while  sullenly,  afar, 

Growled  the  hoarse  thunder  with  its  voice  of  doom, 

And  the  faint  lightnings  shot  with  lurid  glare 

Athwart  the  blackness,  like  a  gleam  from  hell ! 

Tall  trees  and  giant-limbed,  which  had  withstood 

The  outpoured  wrath  of  centuries,  and  dared 

The  rending  fury  of  a  thousand  storms, 


132  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

Quivered,  as  rushes,  in  the  strong  embrace 
Of  the  fierce  hurricane,  and,  shattered,  fell. 
From  the  steep  precipices,  turbid  streams 
Rushed  down  in  foam  and  thunder,  and  the  vales 
Sank  under  whelming  waters ! 

A  rude  hut 

Scooped  partly  in  the  hill-side,  and  built  up 
With  rough  stones  from  the  quarry,  thatched  with  turf, 
Pillared  in  front  with  trees,  its  only  door 
An  earthquake  fissure  in  the  solid  rock, 
Stood  lonely  in  the  forest's  loneliest  depths, 
A  meet  home  for  the  Outlaw.     On  the  hearth 
The  waning  fire  burned  dimly,  and  its  light, 
Fitfully  flashing  through  the  low-roofed  room, 
Revealed  the  countenance  of  one  whose  name 
Had  been  a  terror, — and  its  ghostly  glare 
Played  over  features  whereon  suffering 
And  crime  had  traced  their  record,  rendering 
His  ghastly  visage  ghastlier.     Matted  locks, 
Black  as  the  midnight  tempest,  straggled  o'er 
His  wrinkled  forehead,  hiding  the  deep  seams 
Furrowed  by  time,  and  haply  some  old  scars 
Where  the  stern  blood-avenger's  steel  had  been ! 
And  from  beneath  his  shaggy  brows  peered  out 


133 


His  restless,  eagle  eye,  fierce,  unsubdued 
In  its  expression,  and  undimmed,  as  when 
Amid  the  bloody  strife,  it  glanced  along 
The  rifle's  barrel  with  unerring  aim. 

Crouched  at  his  feet  and  shuddering  with  fear, 
Moaning  responsive  to  the  tempest's  moan, 
A  mastiff  lay,  looking  with  wistful  eye 
Up  in  his  master's  face.     That  dog  had  been 
His  only  faithful  follower.     One  by  one, 
When  fortune's  favors  were  withheld,  his  friends, 
Equals  in  crime  but  not  in  fortitude, 
Left  him  to  battle  with  an  adverse  world— 
To  struggle,  single-handed,  in  his  hour 
Of  utmost  need — they  left  him,  and  his  heart 
Gathered  its  wasted  love,  and  learned  to  hate 
With  deadlier  hatred  than  it  knew  before ! 

His  had  been  better  days,  when  Life  was  young. 
And  Hope,  for  ever  smiling  by  his  side, 
Pointed  her  radiant  finger  to  the  bowers 
Where  Pleasure,  like  a  goddess,  sat  enthroned, 
And  Love  and  Joy,  her  beautiful  ministers, 
Laughed  in  her  sunny  presence.     Hope  deceived 
The  young  enthusiast's  heart — Love  turned  away — 
12* 


134 


Joy  was  for  gentler  natures — and  he  learned 

To  scorn  the  worship  of  his  early  faith, 

Which  had  deceived  and  mocked  him,  until  all 

His  household  gods  were  shivered.     Passions  wild, 

Unchecked,  untutored,  woke  within  his  soul — 

Unsanctified  Ambition  was  his  God, 

And  with  a  fervor  which  knew  nought  of  fear, 

He  threw  the  richest  treasures  of  his  life — 

Love,  friendship,  innocence,  an  offering 

Upon  her  bloody  altar.     Crime  became 

Familiar  as  a  sister,  and  he  grasped 

Her  gory  hand  in  his,  and  broke  away 

From  every  kindly  influence,  and  became 

A  wild,  fierce  rover,  ripe  for  deeds  of  blood, 

The  leader  of  a  band  of  desperate  men, 

Careless  of  others'  life  as  of  his  own. 

The  law  proscribed  him — he  contemned  the  law! 

Men  hunted  him,  in  vain — he  scoffed  at  men! 

A  price  was  set  upon  his  head — he  slew 

The  seekers  for  his  life,  and  laughed  at  fear! 

Those  he  had  trusted  left  him — self-sustained 

He  stood  alone,  and  hurled  at  friend  and  foe 

His  fierce  defiance ! 

He  had  built  his  hut 
In  the  deep  shadows  of  the  tangled  wood, 


135 


Far  from  the  haunts  of  men,  and,  sick  of  life, 

Had  come  to  die,  as  he  had  lived,  alone. 

He  felt  the  energies  of  life,  so  long 

Stretched  to  their  utmost  tension,  wearing  out 

With  the  consuming  toil,  the  watchfulness, 

And  wild  excitement  of  unhappy  years. 

He  came  to  die — despising  in  his  need 

All  human  sympathy.     As  day  by  day 

Lapsed  to  the  voiceless  ocean  of  the  Past,  /* 

He  asked  not,  recked  not  of  the  tale  it  bore, 

But  smiled  that  it  was  gone — a  portion  lop'd 

From  his  existence. 

Fiercer  raged  without 

The  turbulent  storm — the  thunder  louder  pealed — 
Glared  the  red  lightning  on  the  dazzled  eye, 
A  fierce,  continuous  flame — crash  followed  crash 
In  quick  succession — and  the  splintered  boughs 
Sprang  quivering  from  the  Storm-God's  fiery  touch  ! 
Yet  closer  to  his  master's  feet  the  dog 
Crouched  trembling,  whining  piteously  in  fear. 
The  Outlaw's  soul  was  quickened,  and  a  sense 
Of  its  own  power  and  daring  came  again, 
Waked  from  its  sleep  by  elemental  strife. 
A  thrill  of  joy  he  had  not  known  for  years 


136  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

Quivered  among  his  heart-strings,  and  the  pride 
Of  other  days  came  o'er  him.     From  his  couch 
Of  furs  he  sprang,  and  pushing  back  the  door 
Of  his  rude  cabin,  gazed  with  wild  delight 
On  the  mad  riot  of  the  raging  storm. 

"  Ha !  this  is  well !  It  gives 
'  Health  to  my  soul,  and  strengthens  it  again 
To  toHjimph  over  terror,  and  the  pain 

That  in  the  spirit  lives — 
The  powers  of  darkness  hold  their  revel  now 
And  the  strong  trees  confess  them  as  they  bow ! 

The  winds  lift  up  their  voices 
In  wildest  agony,  and  the  stooping  clouds 
Hang  o'er  the  quaking  earth  like  giant  shrouds — 

The  Tempest-God  rejoices 
In  the  fierce  freedom  of  his  tameless  might, 
And  sits  exultant  on  the  throne  of  Night ! 

Gods !  what  a  crash !  again 
The  terrible  thunder  rolls  along  the  heaven, 
And  the  red  bolts  from  rifted  clouds  are  driven 

As  if  to  rive  in  twain 

The  rock-ribbed  earth  !     Another  flash ! — the  sky 
Glares,  a  broad  sheet  of  lightning,  on  my  eye ! 


W.    H.    BURLEIGll's    POEMS.  137 

And  this  for  me! — my  life 
Vividly  pictured! — for  my  days  have  been 
A  storm — a  tempest — terrible  to  men — 

A  long  protracted  strife — 

Dark  thoughts— fierce  passions — spurning  all  control 
Have  waged  perpetual  war  within  my  soul ! 

Now  I  would  die!     The  hate, 
The  vengeance  of  mankind  I  have  defied, 
And  my  strong  spirit,  panoplied  in  pride, 

Hath  triumphed  over  fate  ! 
Men  could  not  slay  me ! — but  I  know  my  hour : 
'Tis  come — I  feel  its  presence  and  its  power. 

Life!  all  its  ties  are  broken — 
Love !  it  is  cankered  by  the  gathered  rust 
Of  early  tears — Joy !  trampled  in  the  dust- 
Friendship  !  it  hath  no  token 
Within  my  heart—my  heart  itself  is  sere, 
Withered  within  me  !     Wherefore  am  I  here  ] 

Wherefore"?     To  die!     The  storm 
Shall  shriek  my  death-song  in  the  desolate  woods, 
Mingling  its  voice  with  roar  of  mountain  floods, 

And  o'er  my  perished  form 
The  genii  of  the  air  their  watch  shall  keep, 
Jealously  guarding  its  eternal  sleep! 


138 


It  comes  !  it  comes  ! — the  cloud 
Freighted  with  death  rolls  onward !     See  !  the  glare 
Of  the  red  lightning  quivers  on  the  air! 

A  fiery,  phantom-shroud 

Floats  from  the  vapors'  blackness  !     Mine  !  'tis  mine  ! 
Man  slew  me  not!     Storm-Spirit!  I  am  thine!" 

A  flash — a  peal — a  splintering  of  the  rocks — 

The  cloud  passed  on.     A  charred  and  stiffened  corse 

Lay  at  the  threshold  of  the  Outlaw's  door! 


ALMIRA. 

THEY  tell  me  thou  art  dying — 
Though  when  I  saw  thee  last,  life's  crimsom  glow 
Brightened  thy  cheek,  and  on  thine  eloquent  brow 

Beauty  and  health  sat  throned,  as  if  defying 
Death  and  his  ally,  Time.     Wo!  that  for  thee, 
Bright  one,  and  loved  too  well !  an  early  shroud  should  be ! 

Wo!  that  with  all  thy  gifts, 
And  with  Life's  pathways  bright  before  thee  yet, 
Thou  should'st  depart — thy  sun  at  noon-day  set 

Darkly  and  lone,  where  Morning  never  lifts 
Her  radiant  light,  nor  voice  of  breeze  or  bird 
By  the  still,  pulseless  sleeper  of  the  tomb  is  heard. 

That  thou  should'st  perish  !  thou ! 
Whose  step  was  like  the  fawn's  upon  the  hills, 
When  the  young  Eve  her  earliest  dew  distils, 

And  her  first  star  gleams  coyly  on  her  brow : 
Death  for  the  aged — for  the  worn  with  care — 
But  thou  art  for  the  grave  too  exquisitely  fair ! 


140 


Too  fair1? — alas,  sweet  Friend! 
Thy  cheek  is  faded,  and  thine  eye  is  dim — 
Death  claims  thee  for  his  own — and  what  to  him 

Are  youth  and  beauty"?    These  must  have  an  end; 
Time  will  not  spare,  and  Sickness,  in  a  day, 
Bears  glow,  and  light,  and  lustre  all  away. 

Yet  must  I  think  of  thee, 
Oh  gentlest!  as  I  knew  thee  well  and  long — 
A  young,  glad  creature,  with  a  lip  of  song, 

An  eye  of  radiance  and  a  soul  of  glee — 
Singing  sweet  snatches  of  some  favorite  tune, 
Or  wandering  by  my  side  beneath  the  sky  of  June. 

Unto  the  stricken  heart 
Thy  coming  step  was  music,  and  thy  voice 
Bade  the  desponding  soul  again  rejoice: 

Thine  was  the  power,  sweet  Friend !  to  cure  the  smart 
Of  Sorrow's  wounds,  and  with  the  healing  balm 
Of  sympathy,  heart-felt,  the  anguished  soul  to  calm ! 

And  blessing,  thou  wert  blest — 
Joy  poured  for  thee  her  song  for  ever  new, 
Friends  were  around  thy  path — the  tried — the  true — 

And  peace  and  quietness  were  in  thy  breast, 
And  Love — how  thrilled  thy  heart  to  his  sweet  tone, 
When  at  the  altar's  side  he  claimed  thee  as  his  own ! 


141 


But  this  is  of  the  pas  I — 

Wo !  that  the  scene  should  change !  What  art  thou  now, 
With  thy  pale,  quivering  lip,  and  marble  brow, 

And  thy  strange,  spiritual  beauty,  cast 
Around  thee  like  a  mantle1?     Death  is  strong, 
And  terrible  in  his  strength — for  earth  thou  art  not  long. 

The  cold,  insensate  grave 

Shall  claim  thee  as  its  own  ! — the  grave  1 — alas ! 
That  the  too  fondly  worshipped  thus  should  pass  ! 

Hath  not  the  healer  skill  and  power  to  save  1 
Dark,  doubly  dark  to  us  will  be  earth's  gloom, 
Oh,  faithful  Heart  and  true  !  when  thou  art  in  the  tomb  ! 


NOTE — The  preceding  Stanzas  were  written  a  few  days  before  the 
death  of  Almira  C.  Rand — better  known  as  Almira  Crandall.  The  sick 
ness  which  after  months  of  slow  decline  laid  her  in  an  early  tomb,  was 
brought  on  by  assiduous  exertions  in  the  education  of  a  class  whom 
prejudice  shuts  out  from  many  of  the  avenues  to  improvement.  She 
assisted  her  sister  Prudence  in  the  school  for  colored  girls  at  Canterbury, 
(Ct.,)  and  bore  with  cheerful  fortitude,  her  share  of  the  reproach  and 
persecution  incurred  by  that  benevolent  undertaking.  When  driven 
thence,  after  they  had  nobly  struggled  a  year  and  a  half  against  an  op 
position  as  disgraceful  for  its  means  as  for  its  object,  Almira  resumed 
her  labor  of  love  in  Providence,  (R.  I.,)  and  prosecuted  it  with  unabated 
zeal,  till  her  health  yielded  to  too  arduous  toil.  Though  its  cessation 
produced  a  partial  recovery,  and  for  several  months  she  could  attend  to 
the  duties  of  the  new  domestic  relation  into  which,  near  this  time  she 
entered,  yet  the  hopes  of  her  friends  soon  proved  delusive,  and  the  grave 
received,  in  the  morning  of  her  days,  all  that  earth  could  claim  of  one 
so  lovely. 

13 


THE  FREEMAN. 

HE  worthy  is  of  freedom — only  he 
Who  claims  the  boon  for  all — and,  strong  in  right, 
Rehukes  the  proud  oppressor  by  whose  might 

The  poor  are  crushed — for  TRUTH  hath  made  him  free, 

And  LOVE  hath  sanctified  his  liberty! 

When  Tyranny  his  horrid  head  uprears, 
And  blasts  the  earth  with  pestilential  breath, 
Girded  with  righteousness  and  strong  in  faith, 

He  stems  the  tide  of  wrong;  nor  scoffs,  nor  jeers, 

Nor  ruffian  threats,  nor  fierce  mobocracy, 

Can  daunt  his  soul,  or  turn  him  from  the  path 
Where  duty  points.     Not  his  the  craven  heart 
That  shrinks  when  tyrants  bluster  in  their  wrath ; 

But  well  in  Freedom's  strife  he  bears  his  part. 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  NEW-YEAR. 

ONE  sigh  to  the  Year  that  hath  sped! 

One  tear  o'er  the  bier  of  the  Past ! 
And  the  soul  shall  be  nerved  as  it  turns  from  the  Dead, 

A  glance  o'er  the  Future  to  cast. 
It  is  folly  to  cherish  regret 

For  joys  which  are  shrouded  in  gloom — 
The  Future  hath  sunshine  to  gladden  us  yet, 

There  is  brightness  this  side  of  the  tomb ! 
Let  us  banish  our  sadness  and  dash  off  the  tear, 
And  sing  for  the  birth  of  another  New- Year ! 

Our  ranks  have  been  thinned,  it  is  true; 

The  loved  and  the  lovely  are  flown — 
The  Grave  hath  claimed  tribute !  and  deeply  we  rue 

The  strength  and  the  excellence  gone ! 
The  Beautiful  sleep  in  the  dust, 

The  Mighty  have  passed  from  our  side, 
And  our  hearts  have  been  dimmed  by  the  cankering  rust 

Of  sorrow  for  those  who  have  died  ! 
To  the  loved  and  the  lost  give  a  tear  and  a  sigh — 
While  our  welcoming  song  to  the  Future  swells  high ! 


144  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

The  hopes  which  sprung  up  in  our  path, 

When  the  Year  that  is  buried  was  new, 
Are  sunk  to  the  dust,  and  the  shadows  of  wrath 

Have  hidden  their  fragments  from  view. 
The  joys  which  were  ours,  are  departed, — 

Their  light,  though  effulgent,  was  brief; 
The  Year  that  we  greeted  with  accents  light-hearted, 

Hath  left  us  the  victims  of  Grief. 
Yet  hurra  for  the  Future!   our  hearts  shall  be  free — 
Though  the  Past  hath  deceived  us,  we'll  trust  the  TO  BE  ! 

The  dust  is  on  many  a  brow, 

The  dimness  in  many  an  eye, 
That  blessed  us  in  days  which  are  parted — and  now 

We  think  on  our  loss  with  a  sigh. 
But  not  for  an  hour  such  as  this, 

Is  the  mournful  remembrance  of  joy 
Which  is  shrouded  in  dust — with  the  future  a  bliss 

Shall  be  found  which  no  grief  can  destroy ! 
Be  the  Past,  then,  forgot — while  the  clouds  of  to-day 
By  the  sunlight  of  Mirth  shall  be  melted  away  ! 

For  the  friends  whom  we  greeted  of  old, 

The  lovely,  the  good,  and  the  brave — 
Let  the  death  song  be  sung — for  the  hearts  which  are  cold 

In  the  stillness  of  death  and  the  grave ! 


145 


To  cherish  their  virtues  is  well ; 

To  think,  with  a  mournful  regret, 
Of  the  stars  of  our  life  that  so  suddenly  fell ; 

Of  the  suns,  ere  their  noonday  that  set! 
Yet  why  should  we  mourn  them  1 — one  dirge — 'tis  the  last 
Which  we  give  to  the  friends  and  the  joys  of  the  Past ! 

Not  in  gloom  and  despair  are  we  left 

To  mourn  o'er  the  hopes  which  are  flown ; 
Not  yet  of  all  gladness  our  hearts  are  bereft, 

There  are  joys  which  may  still  be  our  own. 
The  Future,  perchance,  hath  a  balm 

To  heal  all  the  wounds  of  the  past; 
Life's  tempest-tost  voyager  shall  yet  find  a  calm 

Where  his  rest  may  be  peaceful  at  last. 
Then  courage!  our  sorrows  we'll  cast  to  the  dust, 
And  welcome  the  Future  in  hope  and  in  trust ! 


13* 


MARRIAGE  HYMN. 

OH,  kindly  from  thy  Mercy  Seat, 

Jehovah !  condescend  to  bless 
These  young  and  trusting  hearts,  which  beat 

In  glad  fruition's  happiness. 

Be  this  their  union  blest  of  Thee — 
Not  for  this  fleeting  life  alone ; — 

Hearts,  wedded  for  eternity, 

Oh  seal  them,  Savior  l:  as  thine  own. 

And  rnay  they  keep  their  plighted  faith 
Inviolate  through  coming  years; 

Loving  unchangeably  till  death, 
The  same  amid  earth's  hopes  and  fears. 

Be  Thou  their  God— their  guardian  Thou — 
As  through  Life's  wilderness  they  roam! 

Even  as  thou  hast  blest  them  now, 
Still  bless  them  in  the  years  to  come ! 


147 


And  let  Thy  smile  in  wo,  in  weal, 
Be  like  a  sunbeam  in  their  hearts; 

So  shall  it  still  be  theirs  to  feel 
The  joy  which  holy  love  imparts. 

And  when,  at  last,  Life's  sun  grows  dim, 
And  dearest  earthly  ties  are  riven, 

In  death  be  theirs  the  victor-hymn! 

And  theirs  the  deathless  joys  of  Heaven  ! 


COWPER. 

CLOUD  upon  cloud  rolled  darkly  o'er  his  sky, 

Denser  than  he  might  pierce,  which  cast  a  gloom 
More  fearful  than  the  shadow  of  the  tomb 
Upon  his  pensive  spirit.     To  his  eye 
No  ray  of  hope  was  darted  from  on  high : 

He  deemed  himself  predestined  to  a  doom 
Hopeless  and  endless,  and  a  cold  despair 
Sank  heavily  on  his  heart,  and  rested  there. 

Yet  holiest  affections  found  a  home 
Within  that  heart — and  many  a.  plaintive  sigh, 
Laden  with  prayer,  went  upward  to  that  God 
Whose  chastening  is  in  mercy;  and  the  rod 
Was  then  withdrawn:  Death  snatched  the  gloom  away, 
And  poured  upon  his  soul  unending  day ! 


THE  CHAMPIONS  OF  SLAVERY. 

THY  triumphs,  TRUTH  !  shall  come — when  Error, 
Stripped  of  his  thin  disguise,  shall  shrink 

Before  thy  piercing  eye  with  terror, 
And  back  into  his  caverns  slink 

Abashed  and  humbled — though  his  brow 

Right  haughtily  is  lifted  now, 

And  many  a  willing  devotee 

Before  his  altar  bends  the  knee, 

Meanly  exulting  to  be  known 

As  Falsehood's  chosen  champion. 

Such  are  the  men,  oh  God!  who  turn 

The  pages  of  thy  volume  over — 
Not  of  its  blessed  truths  to  learn — 

But  haply  if  they  may  discover 
Some  separate  text,  some  little  clause, 
To  prop  Oppression's  failing  cause, 
Sanction  the  trampling  of  thy  laws, 

And  wrest  the  poor  man's  right  away — 

Blind  leaders  of  the  blind  are  they  ! 


150 

Impious  blasphemers !  who  would  plunder 

Jehovah  of  his  attributes, 
That  they  may  keep  the  bondman  under, 

Yoked  in  with  dumb  and  senseless  brutes 
Yet,  while  with  blood  their  garments  drip, 
They  worship  God  with  perjured  lip — 
And  mark !  the  sanctimonious  eye, 

The  lifted  hand,  the  brazen  brow, 
As  to  the  poor  black  man  they  cry, 

"  Off!  I  am  holier  than  thou !" 

Such  are  the  men  who,  lost  to  shame, 
And  deaf  to  mercy,  dare  to  frame 

Mischief  by  law,  to  turn  away 
The  needy  from  his  right,  and  make, 
At  Slavery's  beck,  for  Slavery's  sake, 

The  merciful  a  prey  ! 

Oh  shame!  that  such  should  lift  their  hands 
For^evil  deeds  in  Christian  lands ! 
Profaning  with  their  very  breath 

The  name  of  Freedom,  while  they  swear 
To  make  her  weal,  in  life  and  death, 

Their  own  peculiar  care. 
Perjured  and  false !     Yea— thrice  forsworn  ! 
The  tyrant's  tool !— the  good  man's  scorn  ! 


151 


What!  shall  we  crush  our  sympathies, 

And  strangle  pity  in  its  birth — 
And,  heedless  of  the  poor  man's  cries, 
As  from  the  scourge  and  chain  he  flies, 
Harden  our  hearts  and  close  our  eyes; 

And  thrust  him  from  our  home  and  hearth, 
At  their  demand,  whose  lying  lips 
Boast  of  democracy  and — whips  ? 
Serviles!  still  prompt  at  Slavery's  beck 
To  bend  the  knee  and  bow  the  neck, 

Or,  hound-like,  press  upon  the  track 
Of  him  who  haply  may  have  broke 
From  his  worn  neck  the  tyrant's  yoke, 

And  drag  him  to  his  bondage  back? 
No!  till  our  lips  are  sealed  in  death, 
We'll  speak  with  unabated  breath 

For  God  and  for  his  trampled  poor  ! 
Till  in  his  place  of  guilty  power, 
Trembles  the  despot  of  the  hour- 
Trembles  the  haughty  evil-doer ! 
And  bursting  from  Oppression's  thrall, 

Proudly  the  dark-browed  slave  shall  claim, 

In  Freedom's  consecrated  name, 
The  rights  that  God  hath  given  to  all! 


REQUIEM. 

THE  strife  is  o'er — Death's  seal  is  set 

On  ashy  lip  and  marble  brow ; 
'Tis  o'er,  though  faintly  lingers  yet 

Upon  the  cheek  a  life-like  glow  : 
The  feeble  pulse  hath  throbbed  its  last- 

The  aching  head  is  laid  at  rest — 
Another  from  our  ranks  hath  passed, 

The  dearest  and  the  loveliest! 

Press  down  the  eyelids — for  the  light, 

Erewhile  so  radiant  underneath, 
Is  snatched  for  ever  from  our  sight, 

And  darkened  by  the  spoiler,  Death: 
Press  down  the  eyelids — who  can  bear 

To  look  beneath  their  fringed  fold  1 
And  softly  part  the  silken  hair 

Upon  the  brow  so  deathly  cold. 


W.    H.    BURLEIGll's    POEMS.  153 

The  strife  is  o'er !     The  loved  of  years 

To  whom  our  yearning  hearts  had  grown, 
Hath  left  us,  with  Life's  gathering  fears 

To  struggle  darkly  and  alone ; 
Gone,  with  the  wealth  of  love  which  dwelt, 

Heart-kept,  with  holy  thoughts  and  high — 
Gone,  as  the  clouds  of  evening  melt 

Beyond  the  dark  and  solemn  sky. 

Yet  mourn  her  not — the  voice  of  wo 

Befits  not  this  her  triumph-hour; 
Let  Sorrow's  tears  no  longer  flow, 

For  life  eternal  is  her  dower! 
Freed  from  the  Earth's  corrupt  control, 

The  trials  of  a  world  like  this, 
Joy!  for  her  disembodied  soul 

Drinks  at  the  fount  of  perfect  bliss ! 


14 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY. 


HOPE,  strewing  with  a  liberal  hand 

Thy  pathway  with  her  choicest  flowers, 
Making  the  Earth  an  Eden-land, 

And  gilding  time's  departing  hours ; 
Lifting  the  clouds  from  Life's  blue  sky, 

And  pointing  to  that  sphere  divine 
Where  Joy's  immortal  blossoms  lie 

In  the  rich  light  of  Heaven — be  thine ! 

Love,  with  its  voice  of  silvery  tone, 

Whose  music  melts  upon  the  heart 
Like  whispers  from  the  world  unknown, 

When  shadows  from  the  soul  depart — 
Love,  with  its  sunlight  melting  through 

The  mists  that  over  earth  are  driven, 
And  giving  earth  itself  the  hue 

And  brightness  of  the  upper  heaven — 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  155 

Peace,  hymning  with  her  seraph-tones 

Amid  the  stillness  of  thy  soul, 
Till  every  human  passion  owns 

Her  mighty  but  her  mild  control — 
Devotion,  with  her  lifted  eye, 

All  radiant  with  the  tears  of  bliss, 
Looking  beyond  the  bending  sky 

To  worlds  more  glorious  than  this — 

Duty,  untiring  in  her  toil 

Earth's  parched  and  sterile  wastes  among — 
Zeal,  delving  in  the  rocky  soil, 

With  words  of  cheer  upon  her  tongue — 
Faith,  with  a  strong  and  daring  hand 

Rending  aside  the  veil  of  heaven, 
And  claiming  as  her  own  the  land 

Whose  glories  to  her  view  are  given — 

These,  with  the  many  lights  that  shine 

Brightly  Life's  pilgrim-path  upon, — 
These,  with  the  bliss  they  bring,  be  thine, 

Till  purer  bliss  in  Heaven  be  won — 
Till,  gathered  with  the  loved  of  Time, 

Whose  feet  the  "narrow  way"  have  trod, 
Thy  soul  shall  drink  of  joys  sublime, 

And  linger  in  the  smile  of  God  ! 


DECEMBER. 

A  VOICE  is  on  the  air—the  long,  low  howl 
Of  Winter  coming  from  his  frosty  home, 
Over  our  pleasant  valley-paths  to  roam, 

Girt  with  his  zone  of  ice.     The  roused  winds  growl, 
As  maddened  at  his  presence — and  a  frown 

Sits  on  the  brow  of  heaven,  serene  erewhile 

In  the  faint  glow  of  Autumn's  quivering  smile. 

The  streams,  ice-bound,  move  sluggishly  along 

To  their  own  muffled,  melancholy  song. 

The  tall  old  trees,  robbed  of  their  leafy  crown, 

Shake  their  nude  branches  to  the  eddying  storm 
In  fierce  defiance,  as  it  hurtles  by — 
And  dimly  towering  to  the  cloud-wrapt  sky, 

The  Tempest-Spirit  lifts  his  shadowy  form! 


INVITATION. 


THE  Morning  beareth  on  its  dewy  wing 

The  fragrance  of  a  thousand  bursting  flowers, 
And  Nature's  songsters  have  begun  to  sing 

Praises  to  Him  who  built  their  forest-bowers; 
The  green  trees,  in  their  bright  appareling, 

Sprinkle  the  wakening  earth  with  chrystal  showers; 
And  the  bright  sun  mounts  upward,  like  a  God, 

Pouring  from  golden  urns  his  light  abroad. 

Come  from  thy  couch,  Katrine  !  and  the  cool  air 
Shall  greet  thy  cheek  refreshingly,  and  kiss 

The  glossy  ringlets  of  thy  raven  hair, 
As  it  could  feel  a  consciousness  of  bliss ! 

Come  to  the  fields  with  me,  and  let  us  share 
The  joy  of  Nature  on  a  morn  like  this  ; 

And  drink  her  blessed  influence,  as  the  sun 

Drinks  from  the  flowers  the  dew.     Haste,  dearest  one ! 
14* 


158  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

Glad  songs  are  floating  on  the  winged  wind — 
The  birds,  the  brooks,  are  vocal  with  delight — 

The  Heavens  smile  as  man  had  never  sinned, 
And  Earth  rejoices  in  her  splendor  bright; 

Come  with  thy  lute — and  we  will  leave  behind 
The  home  of  men,  and  let  our  hearts  unite 

In  the  green  wood,  where  none  but  God  above 

Can  hear  the  passionate  language  of  our  love  ! 


THE  DEAD  INFANT, 

SWEET  bud  of  being ! — for  a  moment  given 
To  show  how  pure  young  spirits  are  in  Heaven — 
Then  snatched  in  love  from  all  the  woes  of  earth, 
Not  tiead,  but  wakened  to  a  nobler  birth — 
Called  from  the  thorny  maze  by  others  trod, 
Home  to  the  bosom  of  the  infant's  God  ! 
Called  early,  ere  the  ruthless  hand  of  Time 
Had  dimmed  thy  spirit  with  a  shade  of  crime — 
Cannot  thy  memory  even  now  impart 
Sweet  consolation  to  the  bleeding  heart  ? 
Cannot  thine  infant  spirit  from  above 
Say  to  the  mourner,  "  God  afflicts  in  love !" 

Happy  thy  lot,  dear  child!  escaped  from  all 
I  That  shrouds  the  spirit  like  a  gloomy  pall ; 
\  Thy  pangs  all  over — rest  thee,  pure  one !  rest — 
jWe  would  not  call  thee  back  since  thou  art  blest! 


THE  FUGITIVE. 

"  YE  shall  torture  no  more  with  the  scourge  and  the  chain, 
For  the  fetter  which  bound  me  is  broken  in  twain ; 
And  I  leave  you  its  links  with  the  blood  rust  thereon, 
A  witness  of  deeds  that  the  despot  hath  done. 

"  Away — and  for  ever !     I  spurn  the  control 

Which  hath  fettered  my  body  and  bowed  down  my  soul — 

With  the  pride  of  a  freeman  I  trample  in  scorn 

The  yoke  which  my  neck  hath  too  patiently  borne ! 

"  Ye  may  follow  my  track  where  the  herbage  is  red, 
For  my  feet  have  been  bathed  in  the  blood  of  your  dead — 
Ye  may  follow  in  vengeance — but  wo  for  the  hour  ! 
For  your  footsteps  are  girt  by  a  perilous  power  !" 

He  spoke — and  the  triumph  of  vengeance  was  seen 
In  the  flash  of  his  eye  and  the  pride  of  his  mien ; 
And  he  muttered  a  curse  on  the  land  of  the  South, 
While  a  smile  of  derision  still  played  round  his  mouth. 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  161 

Oae  look  on  the  spot  which  his  hatred  hath  cursed, 
And  away,  like  a  steed  of  the  wild  he  hath  burst ! 
Exultant,  he  bounds  over  hill-top  and  plain, 
And  his  foot  spurns  the  earth  with  the  pride  of  disdain. 

No  more  shall  the  blood  of  the  fugitive  drip 
All  warmly  and  red  from  the  overseer's  whip — 
No  longer  shall  thrill  on  the  fugitive's  ear 
The  threat  of  the  master,  the  taunt,  and  the  jeer. 

Away  to  the  land  of  the  North — for  her  star 
Shall  beacon  thy  course  from  its  blue  home  afar — 
Away,  like  the  wind — pausing  not  to  look  back, 
For  the  seeker  of  blood  shall  be  quick  on  thy  track  ! 

Where  the  home  of  the  planter  magnificent  stood 
There  are  mouldering  ruins  and  foot-prints  in  blood — 
Where  the  tone  of  the  viol  rose  soft  on  the  air 
Is  the  voice  of  the  mourner — the  wail  of  despair  ! 

Wo !  wo !  for  the  lovely,  the  good,  and  the  brave, 
By  the  whirlwind  of  vengeance  swept  down  to  the  grave  ! 
For  the  Spoiler  passed  on,  like  a  demon  of  wrath, 
And  Massacre  yelled  in  his  havoc-strown  path  ! 

On  the  still  air  of  midnight,  a  terrible  cry, 

Like  the  trumpet  of  Doom,  called  the  sleepers — to  die  ' 


162 


They  woke — but  the  prayer  of  their  anguish  was  vain, 
For  the  sabre  is  red  with  the  blood  of  the  slain  ! 

When  the  Morning  looked  out  from  the  East  with  its  sun, 
The  work  of  destruction  and  vengeance  was  done — 
The  smoke,  Jike  a  pall,  wrapt  the  desolate  scene, 
And  Ruin  scowled  darkly  where  Beauty  had  been  ! 

What  marvel  1     Yet  weep  for  the  tree  and  the  flower 

Swept  down  to  the  dust  in  a  terrible  hour  ! 

For  the  strength  which  hath  passed  from  the  place  where 

it  stood ! 
For  the  light  which  was  quenched  in  a  tempest  of  blood  ! 

Oh,  this  was  the  work  of  revenge  and  despair, 
When  the  fetter  and  yoke  wrere  too  galling  to  bear — 
For  the  iron  had  entered  the  fugitive's  soul, 
Till  he  spurned  in  his  hatred  the  tyrant's  control. 

From  his  wife  and  his  child  they  had  torn  him  apart, 
Unheeding  the  anguish  which  gnawed  at  his  heart — 
And  he  knew  that  the  daughter  he  idolized  must 
Be  doomed  to  a  life  of  pollution  and  lust. 

Then  the  demon  awoke — and  he  vowed  in  his  wrath 
That  the  blood  of  the  despot  should  crimson  his  path  ; 


163 


That  Ruin  should  howl  o'er  their  desolate  hearth, 
Who  had  scoffed  at  his  wo  in  the  madness  of  mirth. 

And  dark  was  the  hatred  he  nursed  in  his  breast, 
Till  the  thirst  for  revenge  robbed  his  spirit  of  rest — 
Then  he  swept  o'er  their  home  like  a  whirlwind  of  fire, 
And  Destruction  trod  close  in  the  path  of  his  ire ! 

Flow  darkly,  St.  Ilia !  for  mixed  with  thy  flood, 
There  are  tears  in  the  track  of  the  Shedder  of  Blood  ! 
And  thy  waves  have  a  tone  like  a  funeral  wail, 
As  they  give  their  low  voice  to  the  answering  gale ! 

From  his  death-work  the  Slayer  in  triumph  hath  gone — 
Weep,  Land  of  the  South  !  for  his  deed  is  thine  own — 
Ay,  weep !  till  thine  eye-balls  in  agony  swim, 
For  the  cup  of  thy  trembling  is  filled  to  the  brirn  ! 


LINES. 

THEY  laid  him  in  the  Earth— a  child 

Of  summers  four— and  o'er  his  grave 
A  single  mourner  bent.     A  wild, 
Soft  strain  of  music  stole  along 
So  sadly  sweet,  it  seemed  the  song 

Of  Peri  from  her  cave — 
A  requiem — in  sorrow  sung 
By  the  meek  voices  of  the  young — 
For  budding  beauty,  ere  its  bloom 
Laid  darkly  in  the  gelid  tomb! 

The  mother  wept.     Her  shining  tears 
Plashed  lightly  on  the  coffin's  lid : 
Her  thoughts  went  back  to  other  years, 
Wher,  tinted  by  the  touch  of  hope, 
And  viewed  through  Fancy's  telescope,- 
Life's  coming  sorrows  hid — 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  165 

The  Present  seemed  a  radiant  spot 
By  Sin  and  Sorrow  darkened  not : 
The  Future,  brighter  in  its  bliss, 
An  everlasting  Oasis ! 

She  mused  upon  the  time,  when  he, 

The  father  of  her  fair-haired  boy, 
Knelt  in  his  heart's  idolatry 
And  craved  her  love,  already  given, 
And  called  her  eye  his  spirit's  heaven, 

Her  smile  his  perfect  joy — 
In  youthful  trust  she  yielded  all, 
And  freely  at  Affection's  call 
Left  brother,  sister,  parents,  home, 
Pilgrim  for  Love  ! — o'er  earth  to  roam ! 

Her  tears  were  dried — but  quivering  lip, 

And  cheek  blanched  deathly  white,  revealed 
Her  spirit's  awful  fellowship 
With  Wo,  and  Anguish,  and  Despair, 
Consuming  and  relentless  Care — 

And  wounds  which  time  had  healed 
Were  fresh  again,  as  Memory  brought 
That  mournful  moment  to  her  thought, 
When,  all  bereft,  she  bowed  her  head 

In  anguish  o'er  the  worshipped  dead  ! 
15 


166 


Months  passed  away — a  child  was  given- 

The  offspring  of  a  buried  sire — 
Oh,  precious  gift! — in  thanks  to  Heaven 
Her  heart  went  up — one  ray  had  come 
To  light  again  her  darkened  home 

Ere  Hope  should  quite  expire! 
Her  widowed  spirit's  worshipped  one 
Was  imaged  in  her  darling  son, 
And  prayed  she  then  for  power  to  save 
That  loved  and  only  from  the  grave! 

That  prayer  was  vain !     The  briery  sod 

Is  broken  in  a  stranger-land — 
The  childless  widow  looks  to  God, 
And  bendeth  meekly  'neath  the  blow 
Which  lays  her  hopes  for  ever  low — 

It  is  her  Father's  hand ! 
And  did  that  heart  so  sorely  tried 
Break  in  its  loneliness  and  pride1? 
No — for  a  balm  was  o'er  it  poured, 
The  loving-kindness  of  the  Lord ! 


THE  FEVER  STRICKEN. 

OH,  pleasant  is  the  yellow  light 
That  dances  on  the  pictured  wall — 

But  to  my  aching  vision, — night 
Seems  brooding  darkly  over  all. 

The  wind — it  hath  a  soothing  sound — 
I  hear  it  whispering  to  the  trees — 

Yet  wo  is  me!  a  prisoner  bound 
And  racked  by  pitiless  Disease. 

Burns  in  my  veins,  with  heat  intense, 
From  hour  to  hour,  the  fever-fire — 

Till  quivering  flesh  and  tortured  sense 
Grow  weary  with  the  conflict  dire. 

Around  my  bed  at  midnight  dance 
Fantastic  shapes  and  phantoms  grim — 

Now  shrieking — singing  now,  perchance, 
Wild  snatches  of  a  wilder  hymn ! 


168  w.  ii.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

They  pass — and  fiends,  with  fiery  eyes, 
Scowl  fiercely  through  the  dark — and  sobs, 

With  mingled  laughter,  sink  and  rise, 
Responsive  to  my  heart's  wild  throbs. 

Then  sweetly  to  my  ear  doth  come 
Some  faint,  yet  dear  familiar  tone — 

An  echo  of  my  childhood's  home — 
Fraught  with  a  music  all  its  own. 

A  happy  child  once  more  I  stand 
O'ershadowed  by  my  favorite  tree — 

With  brow  and  bosom  bared,  and  fanned 
By  freshening  breezes  from  the  sea. 

Brief  joy! — the  ground  on  which  I  tread 
Glows,  furnace-like,  beneath  my  feet; 

And  clouds  and  sky  above  my  head 
Seem  molten  with  intenser  heat. 

Choked  by  the  hot  and  sulphury  air, 
I  gasp  convulsively  for  breath, 

While  demons  prompt  the  impious  prayer, 
In  anguish  breathed,  for  instant  death ! 


w.  n.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  169 

Tortured  by  dreams,  of  fever  born, 

Amid  bewildering  visions  lost, 
From  morn  to  night,  from  night  to  morn, 

Upon  my  couch,  delirious,  tost — 

How  long,  I  cry,  oh  Lord,  how  long] 

I  hasten  downward  to  the  grave — 
Life  ebbs  in  darkness — Death  is  strong — 

And  skill  is  impotent  to  save! 

Oh  wo  !  by  hope  no  more  beguiled, 

To  struggle  witk  my  wretchedness  ! 
Too  heavy  on  thy  suffering  child, 

Great  God !  thy  chastening  hand  doth  press  ! 

Yet  kind  and  merciful  art  Thou, 

Though  clouds  and  darkness  veil  Thy  throne — 
To  thy  behest  I  meekly  bow, 

And  murmur,  let  Thy  will  be  done ! 


15* 


HOW  SELFISH  ARE  OUR  TEARS. 

How  selfish  are  our  tears  ! 

Mine  would  not  be  repressed  when  first  T  learned 
Thy  radiant  soul  had  to  its  home  returned, 

Earth's  pain,  and  toil,  arid  fear 
Behind  thee  cast,  as  from  its  cumbrous  clay 
The  spirit  leaped  exultingly  away  ! 

Was  it  for  thee,  sweet  friend, 
Sinless  and  sainted !  that  my  cheeks  were  wet, 
And  my  days  darkened  with  a  vain  regret, 

A  sorrow  without  end] 

No — for  I  knew  that  thou  hadst  found  thy  rest 
Where  gleam  the  "  many  mansions"  of  the  blest ! 

Yet  from  my  spirit  passed 

Gladness  when  thou  wert  gone — and  hope  was  dead- 
From  the  green  earth,  with  thee,  had  beauty  fled — 

The  sky  was  overcast 

With  clouds  whose  mutterings  were  alone  of  wrath, 
And  the  sick  sun  shone  dimly  o'er  my  path. 


\v.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  171 

Wo!  for  the  heart  which  lays 
Its  all  of  love  upon  an  earthly  shrine ! 
Its  altar  shall  be  shattered,  as  was  mine, 

And  the  bright  hope  which  plays 
Around  the  ruins  fade  in  cold  despair, 
Leaving  a  double  desolation  there! 

Too  well  I  loved  thee ! — ay, 
Call  it  idolatry — the  deep,  the  intense, 
O'ermastering  passion! — but  thou  hast  gone  hence, 

Up  to  thy  home  on  high! 
Oh,  selfish  sorrow! — for  my  tears  are  shed 
Not  for  thy  sake,  beloved !     Thou  art  not  dead ! 

Thou  art  not  dead  !     The  light 
Which  shone  around  thee  ere  thy  work  was  done, 
The  grave  quenched  not :  in  realms  beyond  the  sun 

It  beams  with  lustre  bright, 
Caught  from  the  "  Great  White  Throne,"  whose   steps 

before, 
Anthems  of  praise  resound  for  evermore! 

The  bitterness  and  gloom 
Of  sorrow  unassuaged,  the  gnawing  care, 
And  the  heart's  desolation  none  can  share : 

These  enter  not  the  tomb ! 


172  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

The  dead  sleep  sweetly  in  their  narrow  bed, — 
Why  should  the  tear  above  their  dust  be  shed  1 

Canst  thou  not  hear  me1? — thou, 
Whose  ear  caught  greedily  my  faintest  tone, 
And  beat  thy  heart  responsive  to  my  own? 

I  kneel  and  lift  my  brow 

To  the  faint  star-light,  and  with  fervent  prayer 
Whisper  thy  name  to  the  caressing  air ! 

In  vain — I  list  in  vain 

For  the  low  answer  which  was  wont  to  thrill 
My  heart  like  life ! — that  tone  of  love  is  still, 

Never  to  wake  again! 
Yet  from  thy  starry  mansion,  it  may  be, 
Thine  eye  still  lingers  lovingly  on  me ! 

Then  will  I  gird  my  soul 
With  calm  endurance,  and  await  the  time 
When  I  may  meet  thee  in  a  happier  clime, 

Where  grief  hath  no  control ! 
Not  vainly  are  these  passionate  yearnings  given, 
So  that  they  lead  us  to  Love's  brighter  heaven  ! 


«  THE  EARTH  IS  THE  LORD'S.' 

PSALM    XXIV. 

LORD  !  the  earth  is  thine, 

And  the  fulness  of  the  sea — 
Heaps  of  gold,  and  gems  that  shine, 
Flashing  through  the  flashing  brine, 

All  belong  to  Thee! 
Underneath  the  yeasty  waves, 

Where  the  great  sea-monsters  roam, 
Thou  hast  hollowed  wond'rous  caves 

For  their  ocean  home. 
Where  the  huge  Leviathan 

Revels  in  his  kingly  might 

Over  beds  of  chrysolite, 

Thou  hast  builded  temples  fairer — 

Thou  hast  fashioned  grottos  rarer 
Than  the  proudest  works  of  man. 

There  uncounted  treasures  lie 

Hidden  deep  from  human  eye; 


174  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

Lustrous  gems,  whose  radiant  gleams 
Sparkle  aye  in  starry  beams. 

All  the  wonders  of  the  sea, 

All  the  gems  that  flash  and  shine 
Underneath  the  ocean-brine, 

God  !  belong  to  Thee ! 

Lord!  the  earth  is  thine, 

And  the  fulness  of  the  earth ! 
Thou,  in  sovereignty  of  will, 
From  thine  everlasting  hill, 
Called  the  light — the  VOICE  DIVINE 

O'er  the  formless  void  went  forth, 

And  the  darkness  fled! 
From  the  mass  chaotic  hurled 
Rose  to  life  this  wond'rous  world — 
Suns  and  stars  with  constant  force 
And  undeviating  course 

In  their  orbits  sped. 
Tree,  and  plant,  and  opening  flower, 

In  their  virgin  beauty  drest, 
Heard  the  mandate,  and  Thy  power 

Instantly  confessed. 
All  by  Thee  were  called  to  birth, 
Sole  PROPRIETOR  of  Earth. 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  175 

Thine  is  every  living  thing — 

From  the  sluggish  worm  that  crawls 

O'er  the  dungeon's  slimy  walls, 
To  the  forest's  tameless  king — 
And  the  bird,  whose  rapid  wing 

Flashes  in  the  glad  sunshine, 
As  it  soars  aloft,  to  fling 
Out  upon  the  gales  of  spring 

Gifts  of  song  that  seem  divine — 

Insect,  beast,  and  bird  are  thine ! 
Formed  by  Thy  creating  hand, 
Heedful  all  to  thy  command. 

Hills  arrayed  in  living  green, 

Where  the  sunshine  loves  to  linger, 

And  the  wind  with  wizard  finger, 

Trifles  with  the  springing  grass — 

Waters  singing  as  they  pass, 
(Pauses  none  to  intervene,) 

With  a  low  and  pleasant  tune, 

All  the  leafy  time  of  June — 

Valleys  with  the  sunshine  dancing 

On  their  verdant  slopes,  and  glancing 
Downward  to  their  deepest  beds — 

Forests,  regally  uplifting 
To  the  clouds  their  crowned  heads — 


176 


And  the  undulating  plain 
Swaying  with  the  swaying  grain — 
These  are  Thine — and  Thine  the  sky, 
With  its  gorgeous  pageantry, 

And  its  shadows  ever  shifting. 
Wait  they  all  upon  thy  word, 
Nature's  Universal  Lord ! 

Then  to  Thee,  of  life  the  Giver, 
Praises  be  ascribed  for  ever ! 
Thine  be  thanks  and  adoration, 
Thine  be  songs  of  exultation : 

Thanks  and  songs  for  ever  given — 
Every  voice  in  concert  sounding, 
Every  heart  with  rapture  bounding, 
All  harmonious  anthems  blending, 
Louder  swelling  as  ascending — 

Tribute  of  the  earth  to  Heaven! 


THANATYMNOS. 

{t  Mournfully,  sing  mournfully  ! 

The  royal  rose  is  gone, 
Melt  from  the  woods,  my  spirit,  melt 

In  one  deep  farewell  tone ! 

Not  so  .'—swell  forth  triumphantly, 

The  full,   rich,  fervent  strain  ! 
Hence  with   young  love  and  life  I  go, 

In   the   Summer's  joyous  train." 

Mrs.  Hemuns. 

ONCE  more  in  THY  pure  air, 
With  my  pale  forehead  lifted  to  the  sky, — 
Wooing  the  winds  which  coolingly  sweep  by, 

And  on  their  pinions  bear 
The  mournful  music  of  the  dying  year — 

Treading  the  herbage  sere, 
I  walk  abroad  with  feeble  steps  and  slow, 
And  strive  to  leave  behind  my  weariness  and  wo. 

Thanks  to  Thy  name,  oh  God  ! 
That  thou  hast  raised  me  from  my  couch  of  pain, 

And  led  me  forth  again 

To  thrid  the  intricate  paths  which  once  I  trod 
16 


178  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

With  buoyant  foot  ere  sickness  laid 
Its  burning1  hand  upon  my  throbbing  brain, 
And  poured  its  fever-fire  through  every  vein, 

Until  my  days  were  made 
Eras  of  agony.     With  exultation 
Thrilling  through  heart  and  brain,  I  gaze  around, 
And  my  soul  leaps,  as  from  the  flesh  unbound, 
Amid  the  wonders  of  this  fair  creation ! 
This  is  to  live ! — and  yet  I  know  I  stand 

Within  thy  shadow,  Death ! 
Just  on  the  borders  of  the  Spirit-land — 

And,  ere  the  solemn  Autumn  vanisheth, 
I  shall  lie  down  in  darkness,  where  the  light 

Of  sun  or  star  comes  not,  nor  breeze,  nor  bird, 

Nor  the  low  sound  of  running  brooks  is  heard, 
Nor  forms  of  beauty  flit  before  my  sight. 

Faintly  upon  mine  ear 
Comes  a  soft  tone,  as  from  another  sphere, 
Earnest,  though  low — I  know  that  voice  of  doom — 

It  calls  me  from  the  scenes  I  love  too  well, 

And  soon,  alas  !  must  dwell 
This  shattered  body  in  the  noisome  tomb  ! 

Pour  forth  thy  ceaseless  song, 
Fountain  of  leaping  waters !  pour  it  forth  ! 


179 


The  music  of  the  melancholy  Earth 

Will  cease  to  me  ere  long; 
Its  wildering  harmonies  will  all  be  hushed 

For  ever  to  my  ear — the  many  tones 
Which  have  in  gladness  on  my  spirit  gushed, 

Will  be  forgotten  in  my  dying  moans. 
A  few  brief  days  of  pain,  and  I  shall  pass 
Even  as  the  sparkling  dew-drop  from  the  grass 

Kissed  by  the  sun — 

Spirits  have  called  me — I  must  go  away — 
Their  voices  tell  me  that  my  transient  day 

Is  almost  done; 

My  life  ebbs  feebly  to  its  final  close, 
And  the  grave  proffers  its  serene  repose. 

Would  that  the  birds  might  come 
To  join  their  voices  with  thy  mystic  song, 
Glad  streamlet !  as  thou  sweep'st  in  light  along — 

But  they,  alas !  are  dumb  ; 
And  never  shall  my  raptured  soul  again 
Thrill,  like  a  harp-string,  to  their  glorious  voice — 

Their  deftly-woven  strain 
Shall  make  no  more  my  troubled  heart  rejoice. 
Would  that  the  trees  might  put  their  blossoms  forth 
Yet  once  again  while  I  remain  on  earth, 


180 


And  scent  the  gales 

With  the  sweet  fragrance  of  their  perfumed  breath, 
That  I  might  drink  their  odor,  even  when  Death 
My  frame  assails ! 

Vain,  passionate  yearnings ! — it  can  never  be  ! 
Spring  may  return  in  beauty — and  the  grove 
Be  vocal  with  the  notes  of  joy  and  love, 
But  not  again  to  me  ! 
Flowers  numberless  may  bloom 
And  pour  their  fragrance  on  the  scented  air — 

They  cannot  cheer  the  tomb, 
Nor  soothe  the  sleeper  in  his  slumber  there! 
The  voice  of  waters,  and  the  birds'  wild  hymn 
Will  be  the  buried  Poet's  requiem! 

The  fragrant  breath 

Of  the  unfolding  flowers  may  wander  o'er 
My  grave,  but  it  can  never  gladden  more 
The  home  of  Death  ! 

Nature !   thou  dear  and  universal  Mother ! 

Nurse  of  high  thoughts  and  holy  !     I  have  felt 
A  filial  love  for  thee,  and  humbly  knelt 
In  worship  at  thy  shrine!     Nor  can  I  smother, 
Even  in  the  grasp  of  Death,  the  fervent  feelings 
Caught  from  long  converse  with  thee.     Sweet  revealings 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  181 

Of  thine  exhaustless  treasures  have  been  mine — 
Teachings  of  wisdom,  such  as  human  lore 
Contains  not  in  its  many-volumed  store — 

And  I  have  joyed  to  lay  upon  thy  shrine 
My  soul's  affections  as  an  offering — 

Nor  worthier  might  I  bring ; 
For  I  have  known  thy  baptism  from  a  child, 
Oh  Mother  undefiled ! 

Yet  must  I  go  from  thee — 

From  thy  still  solitudes  which  my  foot  hath  trod, 
To  the  undreaming  sleep  beneath  the  sod, 

Where  reign  the  silence  and  the  mystery 
Of  Death,  the  Conqueror !     If  my  spirit  shrink, 

And  tremble  on  the  brink 
Of  that  unfathomed  Gulf  which  yawns  before 
My  feet  still  clinging  to  Life's  crumbling  shore, 
It  is  not  that  I  dread  the  pang  intense 
Of  dissolution.    This  must  needs  be  brief, 

And  the  fast-failing  sense 
Will  bring  the  quivering  flesh  its  quick  relief. 
Nay — 'tis  the  thought  that  I  must  part  so  young 
From  the  bright  scenes  which  I  have  roved  among 
With  spirits  dear, 

Breaking  the  thousand  tender  ties  which  twine 
16* 


182  vv.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

Themselves  around  this  yearning  heart  of  mine 
To  bind  it  here! 

I  had  not  dreamed  of  this  !     Hopes — aspirations — 

Intense  desires,  enkindled  on  thy  shrine, 

Ambition!  had  been  mine — 
And  how  my  soul  hath  thrilled  with  exultations 
When  came  the  thought  of  immortality  ! 
Yet,  with  the  glorious   heritage  unwon, 

Ungrasped  thy  guerdon,  Fame ! 
Vanished  my  dreams,  and  crushed  my  hopes,  my  name 

Unhonored  and  unknown — 
So  must  the  Poet  'mid  his  visions  die, 

And  pass  away 

From  the  bright  things  which  now  his  spirit  bless, 
To  the  cold  chambers  of  Forgetfulness 
And  dread  Decay! 

Tears  will  be  shed  and  prayers  be  murmured  only 
By  the  fond  few  whose  hearts  are  linked  with  mine — 

For,  with  the  great  world  round  me,  hushed  and  lonely 
My  life  hath  lapsed  to  its  abrupt  decline. 

Still  to  the  many,  when  my  days  are  ended, 

And  this  frail  form  with  kindred  dust  is  blended, 
Earth  will  be  bright  as  ever  !     Why  should  they 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  183 

Weep  for  the  lone  Recluse,  whose  silent  hours 

Passed  like  a  dream  away  1 
Yet  will  one  hand  its  tribute  bring  of  flowers ; 
Daisies  and  violets,  the  first-born  of  Spring, 
To  scatter  o'er  my  grave— Affection's  offering! 

One  of  the  world's  great  crowd, 
Whose  lips  have  never  breathed  my  name  aloud, 
Will  keep  my  memory  green  for  evermore 

Within  her  heart — a  treasure  shrined  and  cherished, 
Till  the  faint  throbbings  of  that  heart  are  over, 

And  darkly  shall  have  perished 
All  that  the  earth  hath  known  of  loved  or  lover, 
Leaving  no  trace  on  Time's  dim,  crumbling  shore. 

Thus  fades  my  brightest  dream — thus  darkly  pass 
The  fairest  visions  which  were  wont  to  play 

Like  sunlight  'mid  the  shadows  of  my  way ! 
I  wake  to  know  that  I  am  dust — alas ! 

Too  near  allied  to  earth! — No  Child  of  Song 
Over  my  grave  will  pour  funereal  hymn, 
Or  chant  in  solemn  strain  my  requiem — 

And  the  weird  winds  that  wildly  sweep  along, 
Will  never  bear  my  name 

As  one  that  dwells  upon  the  human  lip, 

Though  once  I  thought  to  hold  sweet  fellowship 
Among  the  proudest  of  the  sons  of  Fame  ! 


184  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

Hopes — Dreams — Desires — of  wild  ambition  born, 
Whose  dazzling  light  athwart  my  early  morn 

Streamed  radiantly,  and  on  my  spirit  fell 
Like  a  fire-baptism — ye  who  long  have  shone 
To  blind,  to  wilder,  as  ye  led  me  on — 

Your  lights  have  sunk  in  darkness — so,  farewell! 

But  ye — divinest  spirits  !     Faith  and  Love ! 

Sought  long,  and  found  at  length — ye  Cherubim ! 

Hushing  the  heart's  wild  tumults  with  a  hymn 
Such  as  the  angels  sing  in  Heaven  above — 
We  part  not  here  ! — for  oh !  have  ye  not  told 

Of  the  Bright  City  with  its  gleaming  towers, 

Its  pearly  gates,  and  amaranthine  bowers, 
And  streets  all  paven  with  translucent  gold? 
Wliere  shines  nor  sun,  nor  moon,  nor  twinkling  star, — 

But  radiance  brighter  far, 
Streaming  from  God,  whose  glory  is  its  light, 
Bars  the  approach  of  Night! 

Thy  radiant  finger,  Love ! 
Beck'ning  thy  votary  from  the  troubled  streams 

Of  earthly  joy  and  sorrow,  points  above, 

Where  in  unclouded  splendor  beams 
The  Sun  of  Righteousness  ! — and  thou,  oh  Faith  ! 
Hast  promised  me  the  victory  over  Death ! 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  185 

And  henceforth  shall  ye  be, 
In  life,  in  death,  in  immortality, 

Companions  of  my  devious  way, 
My  guides  from  darkness  to  the  full-orhed  day — 
Leading  me  on  through  all  the  gloom  of  this, 
To  an  unshadowed  world  of  life  and  light  and  bliss  ! 

Then,  Harp  !  one  more,  one  proud,  exulting  strain, 
Thy  last  and  highest,  poured  in  joy  to  Him 
Who  led  thee  gently  through  the  pathways  dim 

Of  pride — ambition — reason — not  in  vain 

Trod,  since  they  brought  me  to  a  brighter  way, 

And  purer  light,  and  everlasting  day  ! 

To  Thee,  oh  God !  who  gave  the  power  of  song, 
And  filled  my  spirit  with  imaginings 
Of  beauty,  glory,  from  divinest  things 

Transfused  into  my  soul — to  Thee  belong 

My  Harp's  expiring  notes,  triumphantly 
Poured  in  thanksgiving,  reverence,  joy  and  praise — 

And  though  the  offering  all  unworthy  be, 
Accept,  oh  PARACLETE  !  the  hymn  I  raise ! 

Thanks — that  Thy  light,  though  late, 
Showered  from  on  high,  the  clouds  did  dissipate 
Which  hung  around  me  like  a  gloomy  pall 
Whose  heavy  shades  threw  blackness  over  all ! 


186 


Thanks — that  my  spiritual  eye  hath  been  unsealed 
And  taught  with  strengthened  vision  to  behold 
Something  of  that  high  majesty  which,  of  old, 

Thou  to  Thy  prophets  and  Thy  saints  revealed! 
Glimpses  of  things  divine 

Have  been  vouchsafed  me  in  my  life's  decline — 

And  that  pervading  peace,  whose  still  repose 
Passeth  all  understanding !     Thanks  and  praise 
That  Thou  with  choicest  gifts  hast  crowned  my  days, 

As  they  lapse  gently  to  their  final  close! 


DRAMATIC  SKETCH. 

(A    FRAGMENT.) 

HERBERT.     AGATHA. 

Agatha. — Nay,  be  thou  not  thus  moved.   I  ain  not  wont 
To  read  disquiet  in  thy  gentle  eye, 
Nor  see  thy  brow  thus  clouded.     Time  will  bring 
Balm  for  this  wound,  and  all.     Have  we  not  left 
Manifold  blessings  yet? — life — health — our  babe — 
And,  more  than  all,  the  love  which  maketh  life 
An  Eden  full  of  untold  bliss,  and  paints 
A  rainbow  on  the  cloud  which  even  now 
Casts  o'er  our  path  a  shadow  1     Oh,  beloved  ! 
Having  but  thee,  and  living  in  the  light 
Of  thy  clear  eye,  and  feeling  that  thy  love 
Like  a  sustaining  spirit  dwells  with  me  ; 
And  Earth — ay,  even  its  darkest,  dreariest  spot — 
Is  full  of  beauty,  and  the  woes  which  prey 


188 


On  hearts  less  fraught  with  the  prevailing-  power 
Bestowed  by  Love,  sit  lighter  upon  mine 
Than  starlight  shadows  on  the  dreaming  flowers. 
Cheer  thee,  my  Herbert!     Let  thy  forehead  wear 
Still  its  serene  expression,  and  thine  eye, 
Filled  with  the  deep  soft  light  of  other  days, 
Beam  on  me  still  in  tenderness,  and  Fate 
Can  throw  no  shadow  o'er  us.     Even  the  clouds 
Will  glow  with  brightness,  and  the  darkness  wear 
A  radiant  look  for  us. 

Herbert.  Sweet  prophetess! 

Life  is  to  thee  all  sunshine,  and  thy  heart 
Yet  knoweth  nought  of  agony.     Oh  God ! 
But  for  the  fate  which  linked  thy  life  with  mine, 
And  thy  young  soul  with  gladness  still  had  held 
Blessed  companionship  !     But  now  the  hand 
Which  should  have  led  thee  unto  deeper  springs 
Of  human  bliss,  and  sheltered  thee  from  ill, 
Must  hold  the  poisoned  chalice  to  thy  lips, 
Till  thy  faint  spirit  staggers,  drunk  with  wo ! 
Why  did  we  meet1?     A  curse  be  on  the  day! 

Agatha. — Oh  Herbert,  curse  it  not!     Did  not  the 
heavens 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  189 

Smile  on  us  when  we  stood  with  clasped  hands 
Beneath  the  holy  starlight,  with  our  eyes 
Uplifted  meekly  to  the  firmament, 
And  our  lips  quivering  with  a  voiceless  prayer? 
Then  fell  a  blessing  like  the  balmy  dew 
Upon  our  asking  spirits,  till  they  thrilled 
With  its  pervading  presence!     Love  and  awe 
Were  mingled  in  our  souls,  as  there  we  knelt 
And  pledged  our  earnest  faith,  while  the  calm  sky 
Looked  down  upon  us  with  its  myriad  eyes. 
Curse  not  that  hour,  my  Herbert!    Oh  how  fraught 
With  deepest  blessings  to  our  trusting  hearts  ! 
And  not  a  shadow  o'er  the  sky  of  love 
Hath  come  since  then.     Then  bear  thou  nobly  up, 
Oh,  best  beloved !  and  this  dark  cloud  shall  be 
Soon  overpast. 

Herbert.  And  is  it  then  a  thing 

Too  light  to  move  the  soul  of  Agatha, 
That  Treachery,  wearing  the  familiar  robe 
Of  Friendship,  that  our  hearts  should  bid  him  come, 
Steals  to  our  hearth  and  robs  it  of  the  joy 
W'hich  lived  in  our  abundance  1 — is  it  nought 
That  we  are  stripped  of  all,  and  from  our  home — 
The  sanctuary  of  our  wedded  love — 
17 


190  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

Driven  out  friendless  1 — that  our  sinless  babe 
Is  made  an  heir  to  beggary  and  want? 
And,  as  the  Fiend  of  Evil  asked  for  more, 
Dishonor,  deep  and  damning,  o'er  my  name 
Dashed  like  a  crimson  stain? 

Jlgalha.  Believe  it  not! 

Malice  itself  shall  never  dare  to  breathe 
Of  shame  to  my  own  Herbert.     We  are  poor, 
But  not  dishonored — not  a  stain  is  thrown 
O'er  thy  fair  name.     Unsullied,  it  shall  be 
Better  to  thee  than  wealth. 

Herbert.  My  Agatha! 

God  shield  thee  from  the  storm,  for  it  must  come ! 
Thou  knowest  not  how  changed  the  world  will  be, 
When  of  our  poverty  the  tale  is  told — 
How  coldly  those  who  at  our  board  have  sat 
WTill  look  upon  us.     The  averted  eye — 
The  curl'd  lip  of  derision — the  cold  sneer — 
The  heartless  laugh — the  mean  suspicion,  shown 
In  shrug  or  start — all  these  thou  yet  must  know; 
And  these  are  but  the  preface  of  the  stern 
And  bitter  lesson  Poverty  will  teach. 


191 


Agatha. — Doubter !  thou  knowest  not  the  power  of 

Love, 

The  fervor  of  its  faith,  if  thou  canst  deem 
Such  things  can  e'er  appal  it.     It  hath  met 
Hatred,  and  scorn,  and  shame,  and  agony, 
Nor  quailed  at  the  companionship,  nor  shrunk 
From  the  fierce  trial  of  its  inborn  power 
To  dare  or  suffer. 

Herbert.  Not  for  thee,  dear  one, 

Was  suffering  made.     I  know  thy  love  is  strong, 
And  quenchless  as  thy  soul.     But  the  rude  wind 
Hath  never  swept  thy  spirit  till  its  chords 
Wailed  like  a  broken  harp-string — nor  hath  Wo 
Laid  his  hot  hand  upon  thy  throbbing  brain, 
Till  Madness  murdered  Reason,  and  Despair 
Sat  on  the  grave  of  Hope.     The  agony 
Which  gnaws  the  heart  like  fire,  thou  hast  not  known, 
And  canst  not  know  and  live.     Thy  power  to  bear — 
Not  the  frail  spirit's  willingness — I  doubt. 

Jlgalha.— Faithless  and  slow  of  heart !  doubt  not  the 

power 

Given  by  Love  and  Faith  to  Woman's  heart. 
Hath  it  not  conquered  agony  and  shame, 


192  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

And  nerved  the  weak  to  venture  unappalled 

Into  the  presence  of  consuming  Power  ? 

To  stand  unmoved  and  wipe  from  pallid  brows 

The  death-damps,  anguish-gathered  ? — to  sustain 

With  words  of  high  endurance  and  calm  faith 

The  strong  of  heart,  when  fainting? — and  to  lure 

Back  from  Despair  the  mighty,  when  their  power 

Is  torn  away,  and  Scorn  hath  set  his  heel 

Upon  the  fallen?     What  Woman's  love  hath  dared, 

Thine  Agatha's  will  dare — what  she  hath  borne, 

I,  weak  and  frail,  can  bear. 

Nay,  look  not  thus  ! 

But  for  this  gloom  of  thine,  my  soul  should  rise 
In  thanks  to  God,  that  he  hath  brought  a  shade 
Over  our  paths.    Now  thou  shalt  know  how  well 
I  love  thee,  Herbert,     While  our  way  was  strown 
With  roses,  giving  fragrance  to  our  tread, 
And  the  glad  sunlight  of  continual  joy 
Was  in  our  eyes,  and  blessings  were  rained  down 
Upon  our  heads  profusely,  what  could  try 
The  faith  of  a  young,  trusting,  loving  heart? 
Now  that  our  road  is  thorny — the  glad  sun 
Hideth  his  light  awhile — and  we  must  feel 
The  Chastener's  hand  upon  us — thou  shalt  know 
The  priceless  treasure  of  a  woman's  love, 


v.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  193 

Till  in  the  fulness  of  thy  noble  heart 
Thou  shalt  bless  God  for  this  thy  suffering, 
That  it  hath  taught  thee  what  a  wife  may  dare 
For  him  her  heart  adores. 

Herbert.  I  will  not  throw 

A  chill,  dear  Agatha,  upon  thy  breast, 
Nor  check  thy  sweet  enthusiasm.     The  light 
Of  thy  faith-strengthened  spirit  may  grow  dim, 
But  cannot  wholly  die.     Its  fires  are  fed 
From  heaven's  eternal  altars,  and  thy  God 
Shall  give  thee  strength  proportioned  to  thy  need. 
Go — thou  hast  given  me  a  sustaining  power 
For  future  hours  of  trial.     If  thy  soul 
Be  thus  upheld,  mine  shall  not  feebly  shrink 
Before  the  gathering  tempest. 

Agatha,  Now  I  know 

Thou  art  my  own  proud  Herbert — for  I  see 
Thy  strong  soul  beaming  from  thy  glorious  eye, 
And  the  firm  lip  curled  slightly  with  resolve. 
The  gloom  hath  left  thy  brow — nor  shade  is  there, 
Save  of  thy  dark,  damp  locks.     Thou  lookest  now 
As  when  with  playful  fingers  I  would  part 
The  soft  hair  on  thy  forehead,  and  with  joy 
17* 


194 

Too  deep  for  words,  gaze  long  and  earnestly 
Upon  its  broad  white  surface,  till  I  deemed 
I  read  it  as  a  book,  and  my  fond  lips 
Drew  near  it  tenderly — as  now — until 
Their  fervor  melted — thus — into  a  kiss  ! 

Herbert. — God  shelter  thee,  my  lamb  !     Adversity 
Draweth  thy  soul  more  closely  into  mine. 
Not  now  I  speak  my  thanks — yet  thou  shalt  know — 
The  Future  shall  reveal  it,  Agatha — 
Thou  hast  not  poured  the  treasure  of  thy  love 
Upon  a  worthless  shrine! 


MORNING  HYMN. 

PSALTERY  and  harp,  awake!  awake! 

Him  will  we  praise,  with  cheerful  voice, 
Whose  constant  power  and  goodness  make 

The  outgoings  of  the  Morn  rejoice! 

Sing  to  the  Lord ! — the  shades  of  night 
At  his  command  have  passed  away, 

And  early  Morning's  doubtful  light 
Hath  brightened  to  the  full-orbed  day  ! 

Watched  by  that  Eye  which  never  sleeps, 
Safe,  and  in  confidence,  we  slept — 

Who  suns  and  stars  in  motion  keeps, 
His  servants  faithfully  hath  kept. 

No  earthquake  shock — no  hungry  flame — 
No  tempest,  with  destroying  breath, 

At  midnight  to  our  dwelling  came, 
To  make  our  sleep  the  sleep  of  death. 


195  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

With  life  preserved,  with  strength  renewed, 
Help  us  Thy  purpose  to  fulfil, 

And  manifest  our  gratitude 

By  meek  submission  to  Thy  will ! 

Oh,  keep  us,  Father!  through  the  day — 
Sustain,  uphold,  instruct,  and  guide — 

Nor  suffer  us  from  Wisdom's  way 
To  turn  to  paths  of  sin  aside. 

So,  when  our  pilgrimage  is  trod, 

And  from  our  eyes  earth's  shadows  gone, 

Hidden  our  life  with  Christ  in  God, 
We  shall  awake  to  Heaven's  bright  morn ! 


EVENING  HYMN. 

THROUGH  the  changes  of  the  day 

Kept  by  Thy  sustaining  power, 
Offerings  of  thanks  we  pay, 

Father !  in  this  evening  hour ; 
Praises  to  Thy  name  belong, 

Source  and  Giver  of  our  good  ! 
And  though  feeble  is  our  song, 

It  shall  speak  our  gratitude. 

From  the  dangers  which  have  frowned — 

From  the  snares  in  secret  set — 
We  have,  through  Thy  mercy,  found 

Safety  and  deliverance  yet! 
And  Thy  loving-kindness  hath 

All  the  day  to  us  been  shown, 
While  profusely  on  our  path 

Richest  blessings  have  been  strown  ! 


198 


SPIRIT  !  who  hast  been  our  light, 

And  the  Guardian  of  our  way,— 
Let  Thy  mercy  and  Thy  might 

Keep  us  for  another  day ! 
O'er  our  sleep,  with  sleepless  eye, 

Watch,  and  sweet  shall  be  our  rest; 
And,  when  Morning  gilds  the  sky, 

Our  awaking  shall  be  blest ! 

Like  the  breath  which  stains  the  glass 

For  a  moment,  and  is  gone, 
Thus,  oh  God  !  our  life  doth  pass, 

While  the  night  of  Death  comes  on — 
Let  us,  then,  in  wisdom  spend 

All  the  moments  as  they  flee, 
So  when  life  and  labor  end, 

We  may  fall  asleep  in  Thee! 


PSALM  XLIII. 

JUDGE  me,  oh  God !  and  plead  my  cause 
Against  the  men  who  break  thy  laws; 
From  the  deceitful  and  unjust, 
Oh  save  me,  Thou  in  whom  I  trust ! 

For  thou  art  of  my  strength  the  God — 
Why  do  I  feel  Thy  chastening  rod1? 
Why  doth  my  soul  in  mourning  go, 
For  the  oppression  of  the  foe? 

Oh  send  Thy  light  and  truth  abroad 
To  guide  me  in  the  way  to  God — 
To  lead  me  to  Thy  holy  hill, 
Where  stand  Thy  tabernacles  still. 

Then  to  thine  altar,  LORD  !  to  Thee 

The  gladness  of  my  joy,  I'll  flee; 

And  anthems  of  thanksgiving  raise, 

And  sound,  with  harp  and  voice,  Thy  praise! 


200  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

Why  art  thou  sorrowful,  my  souH 
Thy  thoughts  like  heaving  billows  roll, 
When  storms  are  on  the  sea  abroad — 
Why  art  thou  troubled?     Hope  in  God! 

For  I  shall  praise  Him  with  my  breath, 
W^ho  saves  me  from  devouring  death; 
And  in  the  congregation  tell 
His  goodness  to  His  Israel! 


THE  AVENGER  OF  THE  SLAVE. 


"  For  the  oppression  of  the  poor,  for  the  sighing  of  the  needy,  now 
will  I  arise,  saith  the  Lord ;  I  will  set  him  in  safety  from  him  that  purf- 
eth  at  him." — Psalm  xii.  5. 


WHAT  though  the  oppressor's  arm  is  strong, 

And  seems  his  tyrant-grasp  secure  ? 
He  to  whom  vengeance  doth  belong, 

Will  vindicate  His  poor! 
Not  vainly  shall  the  needy  sigh 

Amid 'his  anguish  and  despair — 
A  God.  of  justice  reigns  on  high — 

The  answerer  of  prayer ! 

Long  hath  the  bondman,  at  his  toil, 

Bent,  shrieking  'neath  the  bloody  thono- ; 
Long  hath  the  helpless  been  the  spoil 

Of  avarice  and  wrong — 
The  needy  hath  gone  down  to  death, 

Unpitied,  and  his  wrongs  forgot, 
Till  in  his  heart  the  tyrant  saith, 

"The  Lord  regards  it  not!" 
18 


202  W.    H.    BURLEIGIl's    POEMS. 

Vain  hope!  for  hath  not  ISRAEL'S  GOD 

Been  from  of  old  consuming  fire, 
Who  in  his  wrath  the  people  trod, 

And  trampled  them  in  ire1? 
And  will  not  he,  beneath  whose  frown 

The  pride  of  Egypt  turned  to  dust, 
Smite  with  his  bolts  the  oppressor  down  ] 

A  retribution  just ! 

Tremble !  ye  despots  of  our  land ! 

For  the  oppression  of  the  poor, 
In  judgment  God  shall  lift  his  hand 

And  burst  their  prison-door! 
For  He  hath  heard  the  captive's  sighs, 

He  sees  the  tears  ye  cause  to  flow, 
And,  girt  with  vengeance,  will  arise — 

Wo,  to  the  tyrant !— wo  ! 


PSALM  XXIII. 

THOU  art  my  Shepherd,  gracious  Lord  ! 

By  Thee  are  all  my  wants  supplied — 
And  while  I  feed  upon  Thy  word, 

I  own  Thee  Guardian  and  Guide ! 

Amid  a  green  and  goodly  land, 
Beside  the  lapse  of  quiet  streams, 

Thou  leadest  me  with  loving  hand, 
Where  every  tree  with  fruitage  teems. 

From  sin,  and  shame,  and  sore  distress 
My  wandering  soul  dost  Thou  reclaim; 

And  in  the  paths  of  righteousness 
Dost  lead  it  for  Thy  glorious  name. 

Yea,  though  involved  in  deepening  gloom, 
I  tread  the  shadowy  vale  of  death, 

No  evil  shall  anigh  me  come, 
Supported  by  thy  staff  beneath. 


204  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

Thy  bounty  doth  a  table  spread 
Before  me  in  the  midst  of  foes; 

With  oil  dost  Thou  anoint  my  head — 
My  cup  with  gladness  overflows. 

Goodness  and  mercy  from  the  Lord, 

Shall  crown  my  life  through  all  my  days; 

And  in  Thy  house  will  I  record, 
Oh  God!  thine  everlasting  praise! 


A  DESCRIPTION. 

HER  step  is  like  a  queen's — majestic — slow — 

And  full  of  conscious  dignity — not  pride; 

But  such  a  dignity  as  one  who  long 

Hath  held  communion  with  the  majesty 

Of  Nature  in  her  every  mood,  and  learned 

Lofty  and  godlike  principles,  must  feel — 

A  consciousness  of  wearing  on  the  soul 

The  seal  of  immortality !     Her  brow, 

Placid  and  smooth  as  polished  ivory, 

Seems  the  high  home  of  calm  and  earnest  thought ; 

And  the  dark  luxury  of  glossy  hair, 

Wreathed  carelessly  above  it,  casts  a  shade, 

Softer  than  that  of  sorrow,  yet  half  sad, 

Upon  its  stainless  beauty,  rendering 

The  whole  expression  of  her  features  calm 

And  meek  as  chastened  loveliness  itself. 


18* 


BEGGARS. 

For  the  poor  shall  never  cease  out  of  the  land."— Deut.  xv.  11. 

SEE!  by  that  crazy  hut  they  stand, 
Poor  outcasts — children  of  Distress, 

Haply  of  Crime — a  mournful  band, 
Involved  in  want  and  wretchedness  ! 

The  tattered  garment,  patched  and  pinned — 
Quaint  robe — it  warms  not,  nor  conceals ; 

Tossing  their  rags,  the  wanton  wind 
Their  bony  nakedness  reveals. 

They  shrink  before  the  biting  blast, 

They  shiver  in  the  frosty  air, 
And  ever  and  anon  they  cast 

To  Heaven  a  look  of  dumb  despair. 

And  Heaven  that  look  may  heed — but  see ! 

The  rich  man  in  his  chariot  rolls 
Pompously  by,  nor  heedeth  he 

The  anguish  of  those  stricken  souls. 


W.    H.    BURLEIGll's    POEMS.  207 

Covered  with  fur  from  head  to  heel, 
What  cares  he  that  the  air  is  frorne? 

Alack !  the  proud  are  slow  to  feel 
For  outcasts,  wretched  and  forlorn  ! 

They  pass  the  shivering  wretches  by, 
They  thrust  the  needy  from  their  door, 

And  look  on  Want  with  pitiless  eye : 
Oh  God  !  have  mercy  on  the  Poor ! 

They  are  our  brothers — though  forlorn 

And  houseless  through  the  world  they  go ; 

Our  brothers — though  the  lip  of  Scorn 
With  heartless  jeer  derides  their  wo. 

Our  brothers — though  by  men  abhorred — 

God's  ministers  in  mean  disguise, 
They  bring  a  message  from  the  Lord, 

Not  vainly  to  the  good  and  wise. 

Despise  them  not!     As  ye  regard 

The  least  wrho  doth  for  kindness  call, 

So  shall  the  MERCIFUL  reward 

With  good  or  ill,  who  judgeth  all. 


208 


Oh,  never  from  amidst  the  land 

Shall  cease  these  children  of  Distress ! 

Then  let  us  bring,  with  liberal  hand 
Succor  to  all  their  wretchedness. 

Subdue  our  selfishness  and  pride, 

And  make  our  hearts,  oh  Christ!  like  thine, 
By  deeds  of  mercy  sanctified, 

And  stirred  by  impulses  divine ! 


MISCELLANEOUS   SONNETS. 


"The  prison  unto  which  we  doom 
Ourselves,  no  prison  is:  and  hence  to  me, 
In  sundry  moods,  'twas  pastime  to  be  bound 
Within  the  Sonnet's  scanty  plot  of  ground  : 
Pleased  if  some  Souls  (tor  such  there  needs  must  be) 
Who  have  felt  the  weight  of  too  much  liberty, 
Should  find  brief  solace  there,  as  I  have  found." 

Wordsworth. 


MISCELLANEOUS    SONNETS. 


SOLITUDE. 

THE  ceaseless  hum  of  men — the  dusty  streets, 
Crowded  with  multitudinous  life — the  din 
Of  toil  and  traffic — and  the  wo  and  sin, 
The  dweller  in  the  populous  city  meets — 
These  have  I  left  to  seek  the  cool  retreats 
Of  the  untrodden  forest,  where,  in  bowers 
Builded  by  Nature's  hand,  inlaid  with  flowers, 
And  roofed  with  ivy,  on  the  mossy  seats 
Reclining,  I  can  while  away  the  hours 
In  sweetest  converse  with  old  books,  or  give 
My  thoughts  to  God — or  fancies  fugitive 

Indulge,  while  over  me  their  radiant  showers 
Of  rarest  blossoms  the  old  trees  shake  down, 
And  thanks  to  HIM  my  meditations  crown ! 


212 


II. 
A  SIMILE. 

His  frail  bark  on  a  stormy  ocean  tost, 
Amid  the  wilderness  of  waves  benighted, 
And  with  the  howl  of  the  mad  surge  affrighted, 

His  rudder  broken  and  his  compass  lost, 
While  hard  at  hand  the  perilous  coast  uplifts 

Its  frowning  front,  how  turns  the  sailor's  eye, 
Star  of  the  North !  to  thee — as  through  the  rifts 

Of  the  torn  clouds  thou  tremblest  in  the  sky — 

A  hope,  a  promise,  of  deliverance  nigh ! 

So  torn  by  fears  and  tossed  on  Doubt's  dark  sea, 

Perplexed,  distressed,  despairing,  doomed  to  die, 
Dawned  on  my  aching  vision,  radiantly, 

The  star  of  Bethlehem ! — and  fear,  doubt,  despair, 

Fled  from  my  soul  as  beamed  that  brightness  there! 

III. 
CONSOLATION. 

LIFE  hath  its  trials — yet  methinks  'twere  well 
To  pass  unmurmuring  through  its  thorny  maze, 
And  lift  the  trembling  soul  in  frequent  praise 
For  streams  of  mercy  which  for  ever  swell 
And  freely  flow  for  us.     We  do  not  dwell 
In  shadows  which  the  eye  can  never  pierce; 


213 


The  foes  around  us,  subtle,  quick,  and  fierce, 

Are  not  omnipotent — and  we  may  quell 

Their  numberless  legions  in  the  strength  of  HIM 
Who  veils  his  glory  from  the  seraphim! 

This  is  our  field  of  warfare — yet  even  here 

There  are  some  spots  of  verdure,  shadowing  forth 
Faintly,  the  glories  which  are  not  of  earth — 

Then  let  us  murmur  not,  nor  faint,  nor  fear. 

IV. 
FAITH. 

THE  spirit  of  prayer,  oh  God  !  thy  spirit  is, 
Burning  upon  the  altar  of  the  heart, 
And  struggling  upward  to  THY  throne,  who  art 

Sole  Arbiter  of  human  destinies. 

Not  vainly,  therefore,  shall  the  cry  arise 
From  supplicating  souls  who  look  to  thee, 
In 'the  strong  confidence  of  Faith,  to  be 

Sustained  by  Heaven  when  earthly  comfort  dies, 
And  the  heart  fails  through  weakness.     As  our  day, 

So  shall  our  strength  be; — therefore  let  us  bind 
This  promise  to  our  heart,  and  on  our  way 

Press  cheerfully,  and  with  a  steadfast  mind ; 

Joying  to  tread  the  path  which  thou  hast  trod, 

And  of  thy  cup  to  drink,  oh  blessed  SON  OF  GOD  ! 
19 


214  w.  H.  BTJRLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

V. 
MORAL  REFORMERS. 

IF  to  the  heroes  of  the  olden  time 
Who  fought  and  suffered,  LIBERTY  !  for  thee, 
Daring  to  die  to  make  a  People  free, 

Honors  belong,  and  triumph-hymns  sublime, 

Making  their  names  the  watchword  of  a  Clime, — 
What  meed  of  purest  glory  shall  be  given 
To  him  who  stands,  sustained  alone  by  Heaven, 

Battling  with  single  arm  a  Nation's  crime  ? 

Unmoved,  unswerving,  in  the  thickest  fight, 

Though  scoffs,  and  jeers,  and  curses  from  the  vile, 
And  hate,  be  poured  upon  his  head  the  while, 

The  fearless  champion  of  the  TRUE  and  RIGHT  ? 

What  meed  for  him]     Profane  not  \\dth  your  lays 

His  name — for  Earth  no  language  hath  to  speak  his 
praise ! 

VI. 
THE  DEAD  CHILD. 

ONE  tiny  hand  amid  his  curls  is  lying 
Over  the  blue-veined  temple — and  his  face, 
Pale  as  the  water-lily,  shows  no  trace 

Of  passion  or  of  tears.     The  pang  of  dying 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  215 

Left  not  its  record  on  the  beautiful  clay, 
And — but  the  flush  of  life  is  stolen  away — 

Well  might  we  deem  he  slept.     His  ruby  lip 
Weareth  its  freshness  yet — and  see  !  a  smile 
Lingers  around  his  mouth,  as  all  the  while 

The  spirit  with  the  clay  held  fellowship ! 

And  this  is  Death  ! — his  terrors  laid  aside, 
How  like  a  guardian-angel  doth   he  come 
To  bear  the  sinless  spirit  to  its  home — 

The  sheltering  bosom  of  the  CRUCIFIED  ! 


VII. 
THE  CAPTIVITY. 

PSALM    CXXXVII. 

BURDENED  with  grief  and  sick  with  vain  desires 
And  passionate  longings,  silently  we  wept 
Beside  the  streams  of  Babylon,  and  kept 

Our  thoughts  on  thee,  oh  Zion!     Our  hushed  lyres 
Hung,  stringless,  on  the  willows,  "  Sing,"  cried  they 
Who  spoiled  our  homes  and  made  of  us  a  prey, 

"  Sing  us  a  song  of  Zion !"     Vain  demand  ! 
Wasted  and  worn,  our  temple-courts  profaned — 
Our  harps  are  mute — our  cheeks  with  weeping  stained — 

How  can  we  sing  amid  the  stranger's  land? 

If  thee,  Jerusalem !  my  soul  forget 
Amid  the  toil  of  bondage  and  its  pain, 
Let  my  right  hand  no  more  its  skill  retain, 

And  silence  on  my  tongue  its  signet  set ! 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  217 

VIII. 
THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 

IF,  maddened  by  oppression,  men  have  torn 
Their  shackles  off,  and  in  an  evil  time 
Spurned  all  restraint,  and  steeped  their  souls  in  crime, 

Trampling  laws,  customs,  creeds,  in  utter  scorn, 
Giving  the  rein  to  license,  and  through  blood 
Wading  in  quest  of  unsubstantial  good, 

Till  Earth  the  frenzy  of  her  sons  doth  mourn — 
Reproach  not  LIBERTY  !     The  winds  long  pent, 
The  volcan's  fires  repressed,  in  finding  vent 

Sweep  on  in  desolation  !     So  are  born 

All  monstrous  crimes  of  Tyranny — rapine,  lust, 
Murder,  convulsion — then  on  her  alone 
Vengeance  be  heaped!  and  Earth  and  Heaven  will  own 

The  terrible  retribution  wise  and  just! 

IX. 

INFLUENCE  OF  SPRING. 
WHAT  time  hoar  Winter  with  his  icy  breath 

Flees  from  the  presence  of  the  coming  Spring, 
And  the  flowers  waken  from  their  gelid  death 
To  breathe  their  odors  on  the  zephyr's  wing, 
While  shrilly  through  the  budding  forests  ring 

Notes  from  a  thousand  singing-birds,  'tis  joy 
19* 


218 


To  leave  the  strifes  and  tumults  which  annoy 
The  worn  heart  in  the  haunts  of  men,  and  fling 

Care,  like  a  garment,  from  us — that  a  sense 
Of  Nature's  harmony  may  pervade  the  soul, 

And  winning  with  its  witching  eloquence, 
Subject  the  passions  to  her  mild  control. 

So  shall  a  peace  resembling  that  of  heaven, 

To  the  tired  heart  that  prays  for  rest,  be  given ! 

X. 
RAIN. 

DASHING  in  big  drops  on  the  narrow  pane, 
And  making  mournful  music  for  the  mind, 
While  plays  his  interlude  the  wizard  Wind, 

I  hear  the  ringing  of  the  frequent  rain : 
How  doth  its  dreamy  tone  the  spirit  lull, 

Bringing  a  sweet  forgetfulness  of  pain, 

While  busy  Thought  calls  up  the  Past  again, 
And  lingers  'mid  the  pure  and  beautiful 

Visions  of  early  Childhood  !     Sunny  faces 

Meet  us  with  looks  of  love — and  in  the  moans 
Of  the  faint  wind  we  hear  familiar  tones — 

And  tread  again  in  old  familiar  places ! 

Such  is  thy  power,  oh  Rain!  the  heart  to  bless, 

Wiling  the  soul  away  from  its  own  wretchedness  ! 


W.    If.    BURLEIGIl's    POEMS.  -219 

XI. 

A  LAMENT. 

MY  feelings  have  outgrown  my  years!  and  now, 
Ere  Time  hath  strown  his  silver  in  my  hair, 
Or  marked  my  forehead  with  the  lines  of  care, 

With  a  clear  eye  and  yet  unshadowed  brow, 

I  walk  abroad  amid  the  haunts  of  men, 

Or  through  the  pathless  forests,  where,  alone, 
In  wildest  beauty,  Nature,  on  her  throne, 

Sits  undisturbed— nor  hill,  wood,  river,  glen, 
Ocean,  nor  sky,  can  rapturous  joy  impart 
Such  as  in  childhood  lived  within  my  heart. 

My  heart  is  old — the  quick  sense  of  delight, 
The  glow,  the  freshness  of  its  earlier  time 
Are  swept  away,  and  ere  my  manhood's  prime, 

Age  hath  come  down  upon  my  soul  like  Night ! 

XII. 
ABSENCE. 

ABSENCE,  they  tell  me,  is  the  grave  of  Love! 

Can  it  be  so,  young  bride  1     To  selfish  souls, 

Or  such  as  sordid  Avarice  controls, 
It  may,  perhaps,  be  true.     Affection's  dove 

Makes  its  home  only  with  the  gentle  heart; 
But  when  it  once  hath  nestled  there,  nor  change, 


220 


Nor  chance,  nor  circumstance,  can  e'er  estrange 

The  bright  one  from  its  resting-place — 'twill  part 
Only  with  severing  life — perchance  not  then. 
Absence  from  thee  but  purifies  the  flame 
Within  my  heart — its  fervor  is  the  same, 
With  thee — away — in  solitude — 'mid  men — 
It  burneth  brightly  ever!     Love's  pure  shrine 
Is  in  thy  heart — its  constant  offering  is  mine! 

XIII. 

FORGIVENESS. 

BETTER,  in  meekness  and  humility, 
To  bear  the  hate  and  spite  of  evil  men, 
When  Obloquy  unleashes  from  their  den 
His  hungry  hounds  to  vex  and  worry  thee, 
Than  chafe  thy  spirit  with  anger — or  to  be 

Vengeful  of  wrongs  inflicted.     Gird  around 
Thy  soul  Religion's  meek  philosophy, 

And  with  forgiveness  heal  the  slanderer's  wound ! 
So  shalt  thou  heap  upon  thine  adversary 

Live  coals  of  fire — the  kindlings  of  strong  Love — 
Causing  contrition  in  his  breast  to  move — 
While  thine  own  heart  shall  be  a  sanctuary 
For  holy  thoughts  and  aspirations  high, 
And  pure  affections  which  can  never  die ! 


XIV. 
WINDS. 

"  The  wind  bloweth  where  it  listeth,  and  thou  hearest  the  sound  there, 
of,  but  canst  not  tell  whence  it  coraeth,  and  whither  it  goeth." 

WINDS  !  winged  ministers  of  the  MIGHTY  GOD  ! 
Potent  to  do  His  will — chainless  and  free, 
Sweeping  in  conscious  pride  o'er  earth  and  sea, 

Where  is  the  hiding  of  your  power1?     Abroad 

Ye  rush  on  sounding  pinions,  and  the  tall 
Magnificence  of  temples  totters  down 
Before  your  path,  as  stricken  by  the  frown 

Of  the  AVENGER  !     O'er  the  sky,  a  pall 

Of  gloomy  clouds  ye  hang — or  dash  to  dust 
The  high-piled  monuments  of  man's  vain  trust, 

O'erwhelming  cot  and  palace,  tent  and  tower. 

Ye  Winds!  where  is  the  hiding  of  your  power] 
"  God  sent  us  forth  to  work  his  righteous  will, 
And  God  alone  can  bid  us,  'Peace!  be  still!'" 


222  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

XV. 
THE  IDLER. 

AN  April  day ! — on  the  hill's  southern  slope, 

Where  the  young  grass,  beneath  the  eye  of  Spring, 
Looks  greenest  in  its  beauty,  see  him  fling 

His  listless  form.  Now  give  your  fancy  scope, 
And  mark  him  as  he  looks  with  drowsy  eye 
On  the  white  clouds  that  fleck  the  hazy  sky, 

Feeding  his  soul  with  visions — or,  perchance, 
Lazily  turning,  he  dissects  the  flower 
Expanding  by  his  side, — or,  hour  by  hour, 

Drinks  in  the  wonders  of  some  old  romance. 

Oh,  happy  Idler !  who  severely  deems 

Thy  moments  squandered,  knows  not  of  the  stores 
Of  thought  thy  soul  doth  gather,  as  it  pores 

O'er  Nature's  volume  filled  with  glorious  themes ! 

XVI. 
SABBATH  MORNING. 

THE  holy  radiance  of  a  Sabbath  morn, 

With  its  first  wakening  beautifies  the  hills, 
And  glances  downward,  where  the  bright'ning  rills 
Mingle  their  music  with  the  voices  born 
Of  gladness  in  the  Spring  time — sweetest  voices 
From  the  wild  birds  that  thrid  the  intricate  wood, 


223 

Making  it  vocal  with  their  gratitude, 
While  in  their  joy  the  human  heart  rejoices. 
A  day  of  rest ! — let  care  be  thrown  aside, 
And  Toil  suspend  his  weary  search  for  gain, 
That  the  unburdened  spirit  wear  no  chain 
To  check  its  converse  with  the  CRUCIFIED  ! 
A  day  of  joy  ! — the  SAVIOR'S  triumph-day, 
When  Death  and  Hell  were  robbed  of  their  IMMORTAL 
PREY  ! 

XVII. 

THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 
BOLD  men  were  they,  and  true — that  pilgrim  band, 
Who  ploughed  with  venturous  prow  the  stormy  sea, 
Seeking  a  home  for  hunted  Liberty 
Amid  the  ancient  forests  of  a  land 
Wild,  gloomy,  vast,  magnificently  grand  ! 

Friends — country — hallowed  homes,  they  left,  to  be 
Pilgrims  for  CHRIST'S  sake,  to  a  foreign  strand- 
Beset  by  peril — worn  with  toil — yet  free! 
Tireless  in  zeal — devotion — labor — hope — 
Constant  in  faith — in  justice  how  severe ! 
Though  fools  deride  and  bigot-skeptics  sneer, 
Praise  to  their  names !     If  called  like  them  to  cope, 
In  evil  times,  with  dark  and  evil  powers, 
Oh,  be  their  faith,  their  zeal,  their  courage  ours! 


224 


XVIII. 
EXPOSTULATION. 

"  Like  thee,  oh  stream !  to  glide  in  solitude 
Noiselessly  on,  reflecting  sun  or  star, 
Unseen  by  man,  and  from  the  great  world's  jar 

Kept  evermore  aloof— methinks  'twere  good 

To  live  thus  lonely  through  the  silent  lapse 
Of  my  appointed  time."     Not  wisely  said, 
Unthinking  Quietist!     The  brook  hath  sped 

Its  course  for  ages  through  the  narrow  gaps 
Of  rifted  hills  and  o'er  the  reedy  plain, 
Or  'mid  the  eternal  forests,  not  in  vain — 

The  grass  more  greenly  groweth  on  its  brink, 
And  lovelier  flowers  and  richer  fruits  are  there, 

And  of  its  crystal  waters  myriads  drink, 
That  else  would  faint  beneath  the  torrid  air. 

XIX. 

CONTINUED. 

INACTION  now  is  crime.     The  old  Earth  reels 
Inebriate  with  guilt;  and  Vice,  grown  bold, 
Laughs  Innocence  to  scorn.     The  thirst  for  gold 
Hath  made  men  demons,  till  the  heart  that  feels 
The  impulse  of  impartial  love,  nor  kneels 
In  worship  foul  to  Mammon,  is  contemned. 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  225 

He  who  hath  kept  his  purer  faith,  and  stemmed 
Corruption's  tide,  and  from  the  ruffian  heels 
Of  impious  tramplers  rescued  periled  Right, 
Is  called  fanatic,  and  with  scoffs  and  jeers 
Maliciously  assailed.     The  poor  man's  tears 
Are  unregarded— the  oppressor's  might 
Revered  as  law— and  he  whose  righteous  way 
Departs  from  evil,  makes  himself  a  prey. 

XX. 

CONCLUDED. 

WHAT  then  ?     Shall  he  who  wars  for  Truth  succumb 
To  popular  Falsehood,  and  throw  down  his  shield, 
And  drop  the  sword  he  hath  been  taught  to  wield 
In  Virtue's  cause  ?     Shall  Righteousness  be  dumb, 
Awe-struck  before  Injustice?     No! — aery, 
"  Ho !  to  the  rescue !"  from  the  hills  hath  rung, 
And  men  have  heard  and  to  the  combat  sprung 
Strong  for  the  right,  to  conquer  or  to  die! 
Up,  Loiterer!  for  on  the  winds  are  flung 
The  banners  of  the  Faithful !— and  erect 
Beneath  their  folds  the  hosts  of  God's  Elect 

Stand  in  their  strength.     Be  thou  their  ranks  among. 
Fear  not,  nor  falter,  though  the  strife  endure, 
Thy  cause  is  sacred,  and  the  victory  sure. 
20 


226 


XXI. 

SUPPLICATION. 
JEHOVAH!  throned  in  Heaven  and  veiled  with  light, 

Which  man's  weak  vision  may  not  pierce — Most  High! 

Holiest  and  Mightiest!   hear  the  feeble  cry 
Of  one  who  would  be  Thine,  though  now  the  night 
Of  doubt  and  fear,  in  darkness  wraps  his  soul ! 

Thou  who  hast  conquered  Death  and  robbed  the  Grave 

Of  its  IMMORTAL  VICTIM,  hear  and  save 
A  suppliant  for  Thy  mercy !  Oh,  control 

The  evil  passions  reigning  now  within 

A  rebel  spirit,  goading  it  to  sin — 
If  from  the  dust,  oh  God  !  it  may  presume 

To  lift  a  prayer  for  guidance  unto  Thee, 

Cleanse  Thou  its  sins,  from  bondage  set  it  free, 
And  all  its  darkness  with  Thy  light  illume ! 

XXII. 
LOVEJOY. 

OH,  nobly  hast  thou  fallen  in  the  fight 
Of  holy  Freedom !  and  thy  name  shall  be 

IT ' 

Henceforth  the  watchword  of  the  Good  and  Free, 
Whose  arms  are  nerved  to  battle  for  the  RIGHT! 
In  the  dark  days  before  us,  'mid  the  night 

Of  a  stern  tyranny,  we'll  think  of  thee, 


227 


Martyr  of  God  !  and  strike  for  Liberty 

With  faith  unwavering,  and  an  arm  of  might ! 

Not  unavenged,  oh  Brother!  shall  thy  blood 

Sink  in  the  ground — its  voice  shall  upward  ring', 

A  fearful  cry  to  wake  the  slumbering, 
Reaching  the  ear  of  an  avenging  God ! 
And  millions,  roused,  shall  swear  upon  thy  grave 
Death  to  Oppression !     Freedom  to  the  slave  ! 

XXIII. 
THE. WIFE  OF  LOVEJOY. 

AND  thou,  devoted  Wife !  who  nobly  stood 
With  martyr-zeal,  and  in  the  strength  sublime 
Of  a  fond  Heart,  withstood  the  men  of  crime 

Who  sought,  with  fiend-like  rage,  thy  husband's  blood — 

Bereft  of  earthly  hope,  and  in  the  flood 
Of  a  dark  sorrow  overwhelmed,  what  now 
For  thee  remains'?     Submissively  to  bow 

And  own  the  chast'ning  of  a  Father's  rod  ! 

God  help  thee,  broken  Heart!     Thy  sacrifice 
Is  mighty,  but  it  shall  not  be  in  vain — 
His  blood  ! — thy  tears  ! — they  shall  not  sink,  like  rain, 

Unnoted  to  the  ground.     From  freemen's  eyes 

The  scales  are  falling — and  this  wo  shall  be 

The  ransom  of  a  people !    Joy,  in  grief,  for  thee ! 


228  W.    H.    BURLEIGIl's    POEMS. 

XXIV. 
CONTINUED. 

JOY  !  that  through  this,  thy  fearful  suffering1, 

Deliverance  for  the  captive  shall  be  wrought! 

The  chain  is  snapped  that  bound  the  indignant  thought 
In  human  breasts  too  long — and  men  will  fling 

Fear  from  their  spirits  as  they  think  of  thee, 

And  strike  for  Freedom  till  the  Earth  be  free ! 
For  a  stern  purpose  thou  art  set  apart 

By  this  most  bloody  baptism!     'Mid  distress 
Then  bear  thou  up,  and  gird  around  thy  heart 

Strength  for  his  sake  who  now  is  fatherless. 
Lean  upon  God  and  linger  yet  awhile, 

And  from  thy  desolation  thou  shall  see 

The  dawning  of  the  day  of  Jubilee, 
When  the  freed  Earth  shall  bask  in  Heaven's  reviving 
smile ! 

XXV. 
THE  FAREWELL. 

WEEP — for  a  Brother  fallen  ! — weep  for  him 
Who  first  hath  found  a  glorious  martyrdom ! 
Weep  for  the  broken  Heart! — the  desolate  home, 

Whose  light  of  gladness  is  for  ever  dim ! 

Who  of  us,  next,  on  Slavery's  bloody  altar 

Shall  meet  his  doom  ?     Thou  only  knowest,  God  ! 


229 


Yet  will  we  tread  the  path  our  Brother  trod, 
Trusting  in  Thee!  Our  spirits  shall  not  faller 
Amid  the  darkness  of  the  coming  strife, 

Though  drunk  with  agony  the  soul  should   reel ! 

Here,  LOVE  JOY  !  on  thy  bloody  grave  we  kneel, 
And  pledge  anew  our  fortune — honor — life — 
All — for  the  slave! 

Farewell! — thy  rest  is  won! 
One  tear  for  thee ! — then,  strengthened,  press  we  on  ! 

XXVI. 
SUMMER. 

WREATHS  on  her  brow,  and  blossoms  in  her  hand, 
Music,  and  sunshine,  and  the  fragrant  breath 

Of  the  voluptuous  wind  from  the  South  land 
Attending,  while  the  Spring-time  vanisheth, 

SUMMER  comes  forth !    How  regally  she  lifts 
Her  stately  head,  and  like  a  crowned  Queen 
Assumes  her  sceptre — yet  with  gentlest  mien 

And  prodigal  hand  she  scatters  choicest  gifts 
Over  the  earth,  making  the  valleys  smile 
With  verdure,  and  the  hills  exult  the  while. 

The  cheerful  laborer,  toiling  all  day  long 
Amid  the  golden  harvest,  owns  her  power, 
And  as  his  heart  rejoices  in  her  dower, 

He  blesses  Summer  in  his   frequent  sonop. 
20* 


XXVIT. 
NOON  IN  MIDSUMMER. 

THE  hot  sun  from  his  noon-tide  altitude, 

Looks  on  the  fainting  earth  with  burning  eye, 
And  the  still  lakes  reflect  a  brazen  sky 

On  which  no  cloud  its  shadow  dare  intrude. 

Droops  the  frail  herbage  in  the  fiery  glare, 
Asking  in  vain  for  moisture — and  the  maize 
Rolls  its  lithe  leaves  together,  as  the  blaze 

Of  Noon  pours  down,  heating  the  sluggish  air, 
And  hushing  the  tired  birds  among  the  trees. 
The  leaves  forget  their  dances,  for  the  breeze 

Hath  gone  to  sleep  within  the  caves  of  Ocean, 
And  a  most  solemn  stillness,  which  no  sound 
Breaks,  save  the  voice  of  waters,  broods  around, 

While  Nature's  heart  hath  almost  ceased  its  motion. 


XXVIII. 
HOPE. 

"  The  paramount  duty  that  Heaven  lays 
For  its  own  honor  on  man's   suffering  heart.''— Ifordsrvorlli, 

POETS  have  painted  thee  an  angel  fair, 
Girded  about  with  beauty,  in  whose  sight 
Darkness  puts  on  the  attributes  of  Light, 

And  Doubt  half  yields  his  sceptre.     Thou  dost  wear, 

Upon  thy  regal  brow,  a  light  to  scare 
Back  to  their  den  the  demons  that  beset 
Our  hearts  with  dark  suggestions,  such  as  fret 

The  spirit  to  impatience — and  Despair 
Flies  from  thy  radiant  smile.     Nor  do  they  err 
\\  ho  deem  thee  sent  of  Heaven,  a  minister 

To  the  sick  heart — a  friend  to  smooth  the  way 

Of  Earth's  tired  pilgrims,  and  with  words  of  cheer, 
Teach  them  to  look  from  gloom  and  darkness  here, 

To  the  pure  light  of  Heaven's  Eternal  Day. 


232  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

XXIX. 
A.  C.  R. 

THE  wealth  of  love  which  dwelt  within  thy  heart — 

The  generous  impulses  that  stirred  thy  soul — 

The  lofty  faith  asserting  its  control 
O'er  fear  and  doubt — the  hope  which  seemed  a  part 
Of  thy  existence,  making  all  things  bright 

That  thine  eye  looked  upon — died  these  with  thee, 
Oh,  friend  beloved  !  when  darkly  closed  the  night 

Of  death  around  thee  1     Sure,  it  cannot  be  ! 

For  love  like  thine  must  live  immortally 
In  some  pure  sphere  where  comes,  nor  cold,  nor  blight. 
So  art  thou  blest! — and  we  who  o'er  thy  dust 

Pour  unavailing  tears,  weep  not  that  thou 

Dost  wear  Heaven's  radiance  on  thy  starry  brow — 
But  for  ourselves  alone — yet  God  is  just! 

XXX. 
TO  MY  INFANT  DAUGHTER. 

TWELVE  moons  have  waxed  and  waned,  twelve  months 

gone  by, 

Each  with  its  pregnant  history  of  tears 
In  silence  shed,  of  hopes  grown  dim,  and  fears 
Dark'ning  Life's  page,  of  grief  and  agony, 
Since  to  the  light  first  oped  thine  infant  eye, 
And  broke  thy  feeble  wailing  on  the  air. 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  233 

Time  hath  dealt  kindly  with  thee,  and  the  prayer 

Of  thy  fond  parents  hath  been  heard  on  high. 

Each  day  hath  given  new  beauty  to  thy  form, 
New  lustre  to  thine  eye,  and  to  thy  smile 
An  added  brightness — and  our  hearts  the  while 

Have  thrilled  with  new  emotions,  pure  and  warm; 

And  day  by  day  we  ask  of  God,  dear  child! 

That  He  who  gave  may  keep  thee  undefiled ! 

XXXI. 

ORAT  ILLA. 

BEAUTIFUL  creature !  there  is  glory  now 
On  the  unshadowed  whiteness  of  thy  brow ; 

And  the  rich  sunlight  lovingly  doth  sleep 
In  the  bright  meshes  of  thy  golden  hair. 
What  are  the  mysteries  thou  readest  there 

With  thy  blue  eye  intently  fixed  on  Heaven, 
As  if  to  con  its  pages  ?     Say,  Gildare, 

W'hat  are  the  glories  to  thy  vision  given1? 
Doth  thy  meek  spirit  need  the  aid  of  prayer, 

Its  unpolluted  purity  to  keep1? 
Oh,  I  could  deem  thee,  as  thou  now  art  kneeling, 

With  thy  meek  eye  uplifted,  more  than  saint — 

A  seraph,  all  too  glorious  to  paint, 
Tranced  in  a  sweet  delirium  of  feeling! 


XXXII. 
NEVER  DESPAIR. 

"  The  darkest  day, 
Live  till  to-morrow,  will  have  passed  away."— Cotter. 

DESPAIR  thou  not.     What  though  the  hours  have  laid 

Heavily  on  thy  spirit,  and  the  sun 

Hath  dimly  looked  through  clouds  thy  path  upon, 
And  of  thy  life  each  era  hath  been  made 
A  weariness?     Still  let  thy  soul  be  staid, — 

Though  sorrow  trouble,  and  disease  alarm, 

And  sin  perplex, — on  HIM  whose  outstretched  arm 
Is  mighty  to  deliver !     He  will  aid 

The  feeblest  spirit  that  in  faith  uplifts 
A  cry  for  succor.  If  thy  heart  despond, 
Think  of  the  glorious  rest  this  life  beyond, 

And  pray  to  Him  who  giveth  perfect  gifts — 
So  shall  the  shadows  which  now  veil  the  sky 
Disperse,  and  give  Heaven's  glories  to  thine  eye! 


235 


XXXIII. 
SICKNESS. 

MIGHTY  art  thou,  oh  Sickness!  and  the  strong 
And  giant-limbed  bow  feebly  to  thy  sway — 
Thy  veriest  whisper  do  the  proud  obey; 

Thou  passest,  like  a  conqueror,  along, 

And  iron  nerves  grow  tremulous — the  song 
Of  merriment,  the  wassail-cry,  are  hushed, 
And  the  rose-tinted  cheek  that  erewhile  blushed 

Brightly  amid  the  gay  and  youthful  throng 

Grows  pale  as  the  white  marble.     O'er  the  mind 

Gifted  and  vigorous,  thou  also  claim est 
A  wide  dominion,  fettering  the  thought, 
Dimming  the  soul  with  richest  treasures  fraught, 

And  human  pride  and  man's  high  hopes  thou  tamest, 

And  teachest  all  the  frailty  of  mankind. 

XXXIV. 
MARY  HOWITT. 

PRIESTESS  of  Nature  !  in  the  solemn  woods 
And  by  the  sullen  sea,  whose  ceaseless  roar 
Speaks  of  God's  majesty  for  evermore, 
And  where  the  cataracts  dash  their  shattered  floods 
Down  to  the  iris-girdled  gulfs  which  yawn 
Eternally  beneath,  thy  hand  hath  reared 


236  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

Altars  whereon  no  blood-stain  hath  appeared — 
But  there,  at  dewy  eve,  or  kindling1  dawn, 
Meek-hearted  children,  with  their  offerings 
Of  buds  or  bursting  flowers,  together  kneel 
In  gladdest  worship,  till  their  spirits  feel 
A  new  and  holier  baptism ;  while  the  springs 
Of  joy  are  opened,  and  their  waters  flow 
Forth  to  the  laughing  light,  exulting  as  they  go ! 

XXXV. 
TWILIGHT. 

OVER  one-half  of  earth  the  coming  Night 

Hath  cast  its  shadow — yet  the  glowing  west, 
Covetous  of  the  sunbeams,  in  its  breast 
Gathers  the  latest  lingerers,  briefly  bright, 
Exulting  in  their  glory.     Fades  the  light 
Slowly  along  the  heavens — and  see  !  a  star 
Timidly  gazing  from  its  home  afar, 
With  a  kind  look,  as  not  forsaken  quite 
Of  angel-visitants  were  this  terrene  sphere. 
Glad  voices  on  the  wind  are  borne  along — 
And  thrills  the  dewy  air  with  tremulous  song, 
Gushing  from  harps  aerial !    Let  thine  ear 
Drink  in  the  melody — while  the  twilight  dim 
Fades  into  deeper  night — it  is  Earth's  vesper-hymn  ! 


237 


XXXVI. 
NIGHT. 

NIGHT  broods  o'er  earth  with  shadowy  wing  unfurled, 

And  the  pale  stars  look  tremulously  down 
Like  spirits  on  a  hushed  and  slumbering  world — 

Their  glow  is  softly  resting  like  a  crown 
Of  silver  on  the  brow  of  hill  and  mount, 
And  the  low  music  of  yon  gushing  fount 
Floats  like  a  Peri's  voice  upon  the  air, 
Murmuring  solemnly  a  solemn  prayer ! 
Comes  a  low  whisper  to  the  listening  Earth, 

Seeming  of  mingled  pleasure  and  regret, 

As  if  the  spirits  of  the  air  had  met 
To  mingle  sorrow  in  one  tone  with  mirth; 
Chastening  the  heart  that  lingers  in  their  spell, 
Yet  filling  it  with  joy  unspeakable ! 

XXXVII. 
LOVE'S  TRIUMPH. 

PARTED  from  thee,  beloved  of  my  soul ! 
Still  art  thou  present  to  my  constant  thought, 
And  with  thy  memory  is  my  spirit  fraught, 

Though  mountains  rise  and  floods  between  us  roll ! 

The  sweet  idea  of  thee  brooks  no  control, 

Nor  heeds  the  barriers  interposed  by  space — 
21 


238 

My  heart,  o'erleaping  all,  in  thy  embrace 
Rests,  as  attained  Affection's  wished-for  goal, 
Nor  asks  for  more.     With  memories  sweet  and  holy — 

With  hopes  that  lift  to  Heaven  the  spiritual  eye — 
With  feelings  pure,  and  aspirations  high — 
Though  chastened  by  "divinest  melancholy" — 
Thy  name  is  linked.    The  wedded,  heart  with  heart, 
Time — absence — space — are  impotent  to  part! 

, ; 

XXXVIII. 
CONSTANCY. 
SICKNESS  hath  laid  his  hand  upon  thy  brow, 

And  snatched  the  liquid  lustre  from  thine  eye, 

And  thy  attenuate  form  moves  languidly — 
Yet  to  my  spirit  thou  art  dearer  now 
In  thy  frail  helplessness,  than  when  the  glow 

Of  health  was  on  thy  cheek,  and  every  limb 
Was  life  and  action.     Though  Disease  may  dim 
The  beauty  of  thy  girlhood,  and  may  throw 

Paleness  o'er  every  feature,  its  control  !,T»^ 

Cannot  obscure  the  lustre  of  thy  soul — 
That  shall  grow  brighter  as  its  fragile  frame 

Weareth  away — and  Love,  which  is  to  thee 
A  portion  of  thy  spirit,  still  shall  be 
Deathless  as  that,  and  pure — a  bright,  celestial  flame ! 


XXXIX. 
HARRIET. 

"  My  love  is  not  that   silvery  mist 

From   summer    blooms  by  sunbeams   kissed." 

IF  thou  wert  dear  in  sunny  days  gone  by, 

When  hand  in  hand  we  trod  Life's  Eden-bowers, 
And,  happy,  laughed  away  the  rosy  hours — 

If  thou  wert  dearer  when,  confidingly, 
Thou  stood'st  with  me,  and  plighted  thy -young  faith, 
Vowing  to  love,  unchangeably,  till  death — 

Now,  as  I  gaze  into  thy  gentle  eye, 

Radiant  with  love,  serene  in  hope  and  trust, 
My  spirit  owns  thee  dearest,  and  I  must 

Yield  my  whole  heart  in  wild  idolatry 
To  thee,  my  earthly  idol !     If  I  sin, 

Still  will  I  fondly  hope  to  be  forgiven, 

For,  though  an  earthly  temple  shrined  within, 

Bright  one  !  in  thee  I  worship  less  of  earth  than  heaven  ! 


240  w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS. 

XL. 
STARS. 

ETERNAL  watch-fires  on  the  walls  of  Heaven  ! 
What  time  o'er  earth  ye  rain  your  mystic  light, 
While  wake  the  spirits  of  the  shadowy  night, 

Filling  the  air  with  whispers — is  there  given 
A  spell  of  power  unto  you,  that  ye  bind 
Unholy  thoughts  and  passions,  till  the  mind 

Asserts  its  mastery,  and  gives  new  might 

To  every  holy  feeling1?     Still  and  bright, 
Ye  burn  for  ever  in  your  home  above ; 

And  the  pale  star-beams  wander  to  the  earth, 
As  angels  sent  on  embassies  of  love — 

To  holy  aspirations  giving  birth, 

And  telling  of  a  better  world  than  this, 

Where,  pure  from  every  taint,  the  spirit  dwells  in  bliss  ! 

XLI. 
THE  FAREWELL  OF  SUMMER. 

THE  Summer  looks  on  earth  with  dying  smile, 
And  grief  and  gladness  in  that  smile  are  blended, 
For  her  brief  sovereignty  is  well-nigh  ended ; 
Yet  blessings  cluster  in  her  path  the  while, 
And  men's  lips  speak  her  praises — for  her  hand 
Hath  been  profuse  of  gifts — the  golden  grain, 


241 


The  ripening  fruit,  whose  cheek  hath  caught  its  stain 
From  the  sun's  noonday  kiss — for  these,  the  land 
Exults  through  all  her  borders.     So,  in  death, 
Thou  canst  look  back,  oh  Summer  !  with  an  eye 
Serene  with  gladness,  and  as  good  men  die, 
Calm  and  in  hope,  resign  thy  parting  breath, 
And  Autumn's  winds  that  moan  above  thy  bier, 
Shall  tell  thy  deeds  to  the  decaying  Year ! 

XLII. 
AUTUMN. 

THE  sobbing  winds,  with  fitful  swell  and  fall — 
The  solemn  woods,  whose  foliage  hath  been  kissed 
By  the  Frost's  gelid  lips — the  gathered  mist 

Scudding  athwart  the  sky— and  over  all 

A  sombre  veil  that  seems  a  floating  pall, 
Dim-seen  yet  palpable,  beneath  whose  shade 
Earth's  greenness  withers  and  her  bright  flowers  fade — 

These  speak  of  thee,  oh  Autumn !     Thou  dost  call 
Thy  ministers  around  thee,  and  in  scorn 
Of  Summer's  beauty,  all  of  Summer  born — 

Leaves,  flowers,  and  fruits — are  scattered  on  thy  blast ! 
Yet  art  thou  welcome  with  thy  frown  severe, 
Thou  bounteous  "  Almoner  of  the  dying  year !" 
For  thou  its  treasures  in  Earth's  lap  dost  cast. 
21* 


242 


XLTII. 
WINTER. 

A  VOICE  of  wail — a  moaning  in  the  woods — 
A  low,  sad  moaning,  as  of  spirits  sighing, 
And  winds  in  mournful  cadences  replying! 
The  fainting  storm  communeth  with  the  floods, 
And  the  floods  mourn — for  Autumn  hath  departed, 
And  kingly  Winter,  stern  and  iron-hearted, 
Hath  stilled  their  voice  of  music,  and  hath  flung 
Ice-fetters  over  them.     The  birds  that  sung 

Their  glad  hymns  in  the  forest,  ere  the  wind 
Tore  with  rude  hand  their  summer-homes  away, 
Have  sought  a  warmer  clime,  and  all  the  day 

Weave  their  delicious  music  unconfined. 
What  a  weird  power  hath  Winter!     Nature  feels 
His  potent  touch,  and  humbly  at  his  footstool  kneels. 

XLIV. 
JANUARY  1,  1834. 

WHAT  record  bearest  thou,  departed  Year, 

To  the  dim  chambers  of  Eternity? 

Thy  purpose  is  accomplished — and  with  thee 
We  meet  no  more  for  ever! — meet  not  here — 
Though  it  may  be  that  in  some  future  hour, 

Summoned  by  Death  before  Jehovah's  throne, 


w.  H.  BURLEIGH'S  POEMS.  243 

Spirit  of  Time!  our  trembling-  souls  shall  own 
The  presence  of  thy  now  unheeded  power, 
As  with  the  history  of  hours  misspent — 
The  squandered  gifts  of  the  Beneficent — 
Thou  point'st  thy  phantom-finger,  dim  and  cold, 
To  the  dark  record  of  our  guilt,  unrolled 
Before  a  gathered  world  !     Oh  God    forgive 
The  errors  of  the  past,  and  teach  us  how  to  live! 

XLV. 
WAR. 

THE  vulture  hovers  o'er  the  reeking  plain, 

Called  to  the  feast  of  Death,  by  Glory  spread — 
A  mingled  mass  of  dying  and  of  dead — 

While  cannons  roar  and  trumpets  shriek  amain, 
And  fierce-eyed  Havoc,  drunk  with  human  gore, 
Yet  reckless,  sateless,  yells  in  rage  for  more ! 

Shudder,  oh  Earth  !  and  cover  not  thy  slain — 

Hide  not  their  blood,  which  from  the  steaming  sod, 
Cries  loud  for  retribution  !     Shall  not  God, 

Ye  chiefs,  ye  warriors — progeny  of  Cain — 

Visit  the  lands  for  this1?     The  widow's  cries 
Witness  against  you— and  the  orphan's  shriek 
Is  heard  in  Heaven !     Your  hands  with  murder  reek, 

And  God  abhors  your  bloody  sacrifice ! 


244 


XLVI. 
COiNTINUED. 

How  long,  oh  Lord!  how  long  shall  Carnage  reign, 
And  mad  Ambition  and  demoniac  Rage, 
With  sway  despotic,  o'er  Thy  heritage  1 

Shall  dove-eyed  Peace  ne'er  smile  on  man  again? 

Shall  Justice  frown,  and  Mercy  plead,  in  vain, 

While  smokes  the  earth  with  blood,  and  rampant  War 
Crushes  the  Nations  'neath  his  iron  car, 

Gorging  himself  with  hecatombs  of  slain1? 

Shall  Truth  be  dumb,  shall  Virtue  shrink,  afraid 

To  pour  rebuke  upon  the  sons  of  Hell — 

The  fiends  of  Passion — who,  with  purpose  fell, 
Still  drive  in  human  blood  their  demon  trade1? 

Forbid  it,  righteous  God !  assert  Thy  sway, 

Till  Earth  shall  hear  Thy  voice,  and  hearing  shall  obey ! 


XLVII. 
PEACE. 

THE  prayer  is  heard.     A  light  is  faintly  gleaming 
Through  clouds  tha  llong  have  darkly  brooded  o'er 
Benighted  Earth — and  soon  on  us  shall  pour 

Diviner  radiance  from  the  heavens  streaming ! 


245 


That  herald-light  shall  brighten  to  the  morning 
Of  a  Millennial  day — and  in  its  dawning 

Murder  shall  die,  the  reign  of  Rapine  cease ! 
Then  to  the  winds  shall  God  unfurl  his  banner, 
And  Earth,  through  all  her  borders,  shout  hosanna, 

And  bless  thy  sway,  INCARNATE  PRINCE  OF  PEACE  ! 
Oh  !  let  the  auspicious  Day  salute  our  eyes, 

When  men  shall  live  in  holiest  fellowship, 

And  hallelujahs  dwell  on  every  lip, 

And  mingled  prayers  and  praises  greet  the  skies! 


ft 


L'ENVOI. 

I. 

SPIRIT  of  Song  !  farewell ! 
Dear  Harp !  the  solace  of  my  darker  days — 

Thy  chords  no  longer  shall  responsive  swell 
To  lay,  or  legend,  psalm,  or  song  of  praise ! 

I  tear  thy  quivering  strings, 
With  hand  reluctant,  one  by  one,  apart, 
And  listen  with  wet  eye  and  sorrowing  heart, 
To  thy  last  melancholy  murmurings. 

II. 

For  even  in  the  bright 
Glad  hours  of  Childhood,  ere  the  hand  of  Care 

Had  touched  my  forehead,  thou  wert  my  delight 
As  seraph-songs  that  float  upon  the  air 

Amid  the  twilight  dim, 
Seemed  thy  low  music  to  my  listening  ear; 
While  in  thy  faintest  notes  my  soul  could  hear, 
With  solemn  joy,  Life's  everlasting  hymn ! 


247 


III. 

Nor  Passion,  Lust,  nor  Pride, 
With  touch  unholy  hath  profaned  thy  chords — 

Of  love,  of  faith,  of  courage  sanctified 
By  deeds  of  mercy — of  divine  rewards 
Kept  for  the  pure — thy  themes 
Have  been  of  these — and  oh !  have  not  thy  tones 
Sunk  upon  human  hearts  like  benisons, 

Or  the  sweet  whispers  Childhood  hears  in  dreams  I 

IV. 

Rapine — Convulsion — War — 
The  pomp  and  tinsel  of  unrighteous  Power— 

Bloated  Oppression,  yoking  to  his  car 
Immortal  men,  and  rampant  to  devour 

The  widow's,  orphan's  mite — 
Oh  Harp!  thou  had'st  no  triumph-song  for  these — 
No  chant  sublime  to  tell  their  victories, 
In  desolation  traced,  and  wo,  and  blight! 

V. 

But  for  the  poor  and  lowly — 
The  hopeless — homeless — for  the  bleeding  slave — 
The  broken  heart  to  cheer  with  comforts  holy — 
To  lift  the  mourner's  eye  above  the  grave, 


248  w.  H.  BUELEIGH'S  POEMS. 

And  fix  its  gaze  on  Heaven, 

Thy  chords  have  thrilled  responsive  to  my  song — 
For  Truth,  for  Right,  in  stern  rebuke  of  Wrong, 

Clear,  bold,  untremulous,  hath  thy  voice  been  given ! 

VI. 

Yet  may  I  wake  no  more 
Thy  latent  mpiody — Dear  Tiarp  !  farewell ! 

Youth's  hopes  and  Fancy's  dream  alike  are  o'er — 
No  more  with  me  the  Poet's  visions  dwell. 

Thy  chords  are  torn  apart, 
Oh  never  more  to  thrill  to  touch  of  mine — 
Yet  haply,  Harp !  these  gentle  strains  of  thine 
May  linger  long1  in  many  a  loving  heart ! 

MARCH  14th,  1841. 


/ 


14  DAY  USE 

URN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  "CROWED 


---  ~"  «-"c  A«t  uate  siampea  Deiow,  or 
on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

IN  STACKS 

NQV2619B7 

RE^c  :,/:; 

.  

*• 

*. 

^sii^r^         u-"-S§^^ 

